


Turtles and Technodromes

by VasquezLives



Series: TMNT 1987 'Verse [1]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 1987), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VasquezLives/pseuds/VasquezLives
Summary: When a reporter at Channel 6 is murdered after poking his nose into Purple Dragon territory, his story falls to April O'Neil.  Together with her friend Spike, April finds herself digging beyond gang crime sprees, discovering the rotten core of the Big Apple: A Japanese crime clan known as the Foot.  As the evil underbelly of New York City comes to light, so too do some mysterious new allies....(Based on the 1987 pilot, 'Turtle Tracks')





	1. Burch's Story

On December 27 th , 1987, Morgan Burch was found in the doorway to his apartment with a blunted metal prong embedded in his skull and the symbol of a dragon head carved into his arm.

On December 28 th , 1987, everything changed forever.

It didn’t take a reporter’s senses to know that something was wrong. Newsrooms weren’t supposed to be quiet. Especially newsrooms in the middle of a crimewave in New York City.

The silence filled the lobby, heavy and thick, weighing down the shoulders of reporters as they passed in and out through the double glass doors, off to new assignments. Off-duty cameramen stood by the watercooler, staring at their boots, their discussions quieted. Even usually-talkative receptionist Irma Langinstein’s typically cheery tone was hushed, as though to be louder was disrespectful. Even the splash of the fountain seemed muted.

It wasn’t just grief that was bearing down on this place. It was fear.

April O’Neil stood in the doorway to the Channel 6 lobby, letting the warmth of the building drive out the chill of the December air outside. She could feel it too, that heavy, suffocating horror.

Irma looked up from her spot behind the reception desk, red-rimmed eyes landing on April. Her eyes widened behind her glasses and she stood up, waving her arms with an air of urgency. “April! Come over here!” Her high pitched voice pierced the air, cutting through the layers of tension that stifled the room. Reporters started, spinning to look at the desk in surprise, jolted out of the mournful silence. One of the cameramen at the water cooler jolted, dropping his cup.

Puzzled, April crossed to the desk, white boots sinking into the soft carpet as Irma reached for a tissue.

“Are you alright, Irma?” April asked gently, watching the bespectacled receptionist blow her nose. 

“Oh, I’m fine now.” Irma waved her hand dismissively, smiling weakly. “I did my crying earlier. No worries.” Her eyes watered slightly and she shook her head, bringing the tissue back up to her nose.

April shifted her weight, glancing away as Irma blew her nose again and reached for another tissue. Her sharp, blue eyes fell on the mountain of discarded tissues already strewn across the desk, and a stab of guilt sliced through her stomach.

Irma cleared her throat, sniffling once as she composed herself. “Mr. Thompson wants to see you,” she said.

April fought the urge to grimace, scolding herself at her own pettiness. In light of the news that morning, her regular squabbles with the chief editor seemed trivial, inconsequential. What right had she to be upset about the possibility of an argument with her boss, when a coworker had been killed?

“Did he say what he wants to see me about?”

Irma shook her head. “No. He’s….not himself, April. He’s taking this hard.” She bit her lip. “Really hard,” she added. “I’ve never seen him this shaken up. He’s been quiet all morning, like he’s still processing what happened.”

_ That  _ was hard to imagine. Burne Thompson was one of the hardest people April had ever met. He never shed a tear, and the only personality trait April had seen him freely exhibit was an explosive temper, usually unleashed upon her. 

For him to be emotionally affected by anything, even a gruesome death, was unprecedented. 

April looked past Irma, towards the heavy wooden door to Burne Thompson’s office. She lifted her pointed chin, tightening her grip on the strap of her purse. “Well,” she said. “I guess I’d better go in then. Wish me luck.”

She pushed away from the desk, marching towards the ominous door with more confidence than she felt. She grasped at the handle, squaring her slim shoulders and taking a deep breath before she pushed the door open, bracing herself for whatever she might see when she stepped inside.

* * *

Despite Irma’s warnings, the sight that greeted her on the other side of the door still surprised her.

Burne Thompson slumped at his large. wooden desk, eyes bloodshot and bleary, a far cry from the blustering, bellowing boss most familiar to the reporter. He didn’t stir as April took another step into the room, staring absently at the desk before him, looking ten years older than he had the day before.

April closed the door behind her as quietly as she could manage. Somehow, the silence in here was worse than it had been in the lobby, more stifling in the confined space. The muted colors made Thompson’s skin look pale, and his face drawn, drawing attention to the large dark circles under his eyes.

In all the years working for Channel 6 News, she’d never seen him like this. It almost frightened her. 

She cleared her throat, wincing at the noise. “You wanted to see me, Burne?” she asked quietly.

Thompson sluggishly looked up at her at her from his expansive chair, blinking slowly. “Hm? O’Neil? Oh, yeah.” The editor leaned forward in a familiar movement, folding his hands on top of his desk. For a moment he sat in silence, studying the expensive watch around his thick wrist. “I suppose you’ve heard about Burch.” 

April’s stomach twisted. “Yes.”

Thompson nodded, unclasping his hands and running one through his thinning, graying hair. “The police are dismissing it as a theft and manslaughter. Panicked robber didn’t realize he was home, there was a struggle….and whammo.” He gestured to his forehead. “Right through the noggin.”

April paused, frowning as she thought. 

“The report didn’t say anything about a struggle,” she objected. Even though it was her normal voice, it seemed harsh and loud in the quiet room. “Or about anything missing. It  _ did  _ mention a symbol carved into his arm, and the fact that he’d been killed with a  _ foreign weapon. _ ” She raised her voice slightly, echoing it off of the walls as she built up steam. “That’s not the work of a panicked thief. Though maybe I’d have more experience recognizing one if you’d let me cover something a little more important than a  _ high school parade _ .” She put her hands on her hips, frown deepening.

“O’Neil, it’s not the time to gripe about how I waste your talents,” Thompson snapped. He stood, color starting to return to his cheeks as he glowered back. “I’ve just lost one of my best reporters. That moves you up the ranks. Before you start complaining, hear me out about why I called you in here.”

April’s expression faltered. “I’m sorry,” she said more softly, removing her hands from her hips, letting her arms drop. “Go ahead, Burne.”

Thompson cleared his throat, relaxing and sitting down again. “Do you know what the mark on Burch’s arm was, O’Neil?”

April shook her head. “I didn’t notice a description of the shape in the report this morning. Have the police figured it out?”

“They didn’t have to.” Thompson opened a drawer in his desk, taking out a handful of photographs and sliding them across the wooden surface. “If you’ve got the stomach for it, take a look.”

April approached the desk and reached for the pictures cautiously, picking one up and glancing at it. The grisly image of her former coworker’s body greeted her, stiff and blood stained. Her eyes fell on his, wide in a dead stare. She forced her gaze away, traveling down the forearm as her stomach churned. She willed her eyes to focus on the gory marred flesh of his right forearm, bright blue eyes narrowing as she studied it.

“That’s the mark of the Purple Dragons.” Her head flew up, incredulity flashing across her face as a tendril of fear constricted her chest. “Oh my word. Burne, this was a hit. This was a gang killing! We have to tell the police.”

“They already know.”

April dropped the pictures back onto the desk. “What?”

“They know the Dragons whacked him. But you know the cops in Dragon territory. Half of ‘em are being paid off to look the other way when stuff like this happens, and the other half are too scared to do anything about it.” Thompson rubbed his temples. “They’re not going to place blame on the Dragons.”

“He was working on something,” April said slowly. “Burch, I mean. He was getting close to something hot, so they killed him.” She looked up, staring unseeing as her mind worked. “An assignment that you gave him.”

Thompson nodded grimly. “The technology crime spree. All those high-tech parts that were stolen from all those scientific research companies around the city? Burch found evidence that the Purple Dragons were involved, possibly working with another party. He heard that a new partnership was going up between the Dragons and an overseas gang that was gonna make them the most powerful gang in the Big Apple. Seemed to think they were smuggling parts to this other party.” Thompson tapped another one of the photos on the desk, pointing to a smashed tape recorder lying next to the body. “Police found this on Burch.”

April’s eyes followed his finger, chest feeling even tighter. She leaned forward, placing both manicured hands on the desk, thinking, sifting through the conversation as her brow furrowed. One question came to mind, a rather insistent one. She looked up, meeting the editor’s gaze. “You called me in here to tell me about a dead reporter and a dead story. What does this have to do with me?” she asked quietly.

Thompson grimaced, glancing away and shifting in his seat. “You’re sharp, O’Neil. I hate to admit it. I don’t like you, you know.”

“I know.”

“But with Burch gone, you’re my third best, and I have a job for you.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not killing the story.”

April started again, shock and horror battling for the dominant emotion. “What?! Why not?” 

Thompson leaned forward, a defensive frown spreading over his features. “Suppression of the news is indefensible. Unless you’ve given up believing in the Journalist’s Creed?”

“You know I haven’t,” April shot back. “But Burne, someone has  _ died.  _ Whoever you assign next could be in as much danger as Burch was!”

“And if they have any commitment to the job, they’ll take the precautions and deliver the story anyway. All you need is some evidence, to catch ‘em in the act.” Thompson stood, planting his hands on the desk, mirroring her stance. The bluster was back, and April’s temper spiked, rising to match his.

She gestured. “Who is going to take  _ that  _ assignment, Burne? Who here is dumb enough to pick up  _ that  _ trail after what happened to Morgan?!” She froze, for an instant, backing away from the desk as the words sunk in. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“Are you insane?!”

“You’re the one always pushing for bigger and more exciting stories, never happy with what I give you, always saying I’m wasting your abilities. You haven’t pulled in anything good in two years. Well, here’s your big shot. Don’t screw it up.”

“Why me?” April demanded. She waved her hand at the door. “What about Eastman? Or Laird? What makes you think  _ I  _ can do this? You haven’t shown a glimmer of faith in me since I started here! Unless you just  _ want  _ me to get killed!”

Thompson looked unperturbed. “I have my reasons. You’ve got connections. You know people with links to the Purple Dragons. You’ve got access to leads. And you’ve got Sanchez.”

There was a pause as April took another step back, stunned. “Spike’ll never let me go through with this. If she finds out I’m on the trail of  _ Purple Dragons- _ ”

“She doesn’t have a choice, O’Neil. And she doesn’t run this newsroom. I do. I’m sending you in, or it’s your job on the line. This is your shot at the big time, and you’ve been begging me for it for five years. You’re the only reporter in this building with guaranteed protection. Sanchez will keep you safe if it’s either that or the unemployment line.” His voice softened slightly. “I don’t like you, but I don’t want you dead either.”

April’s eyes fell again to the picture of the mangled tape recorder. A shudder ran down her spine at the image of Burch’s body, equally mangled, for the crime of poking his nose into Purple Dragon territory. Fear roiled her stomach, fighting with memories of years of training, and subsequent years of fluff pieces.

“If I do this,” she said slowly. “You’ll take me seriously?”

“I’ll give you the cream of the crop. But you’ve gotta prove yourself to me first. Go out there and get me that story, O’Neil. Make sure Burch didn’t die for nothing.”

April took one last glance at the photographs on the desk before she set her pointed chin, raising her head to look the editor in the eye. 

“Where do I start?”

* * *

  
April hadn’t known Morgan Burch well at all. If anything, that seemed to make it worse.

She felt shock, horror, sadness….but in the same way as when she heard about a death on the news. Guilt bubbled in her chest as she flipped through the stack of files on her desk, guilt that she could feel  _ irritation  _ as she sorted through a dead man’s disorderly things. Guilt that she could focus on finding information so easily.

Guilt that she didn’t know him well enough to grieve.

Irma dropped another stack of papers onto the desk. “Here’s the last of the files in Burch’s office,” she announced, slumping against the countertop. “I can’t believe how few there are.”

“Considering how little there is, it seems to take a long time to go through them.” April remarked, glancing at the clock. She sighed, flipping through the first few pages of this new pile. “There’s no organization here at all.”

The brunette receptionist collapsed into an office chair on the other side of April’s desk, humming with agreement. She reached for the stack, taking a smaller heap from the top. “You never did tell me why you needed these, April. What exactly are you looking for?”

April paused, glancing up at Irma with a grimace.

It wasn’t anything against Irma. The excitable receptionist was the closest thing April had to a friend at Channel 6, always warm and chipper, if a bit hyper emotional and…...chatty.

It was the hyper-emotional part that made Irma the only person at Channel 6 who had wept for Morgan Burch.

It was the chatty part that April was worried about.

The redhead thought for a moment. “Promise you won’t say a word?”

Irma looked up, brown eyes lighting with interest. “Cross my heart.”

April took a deep breath. “Thompson wants me to take over the last case Burch worked on. He...found something incriminating. A gang partnership, working together smuggling technology overseas.”

Irma’s eyes were wide behind thick glasses as she leaned forward. “The Russians?” she breathed.

“No.” April dropped her voice. “The Purple Dragons,” she said quietly.

Irma’s jaw dropped and she reached forward, gripping the edge of the desk with white knuckles. The papers on her lap scattered to the floor. “ _ Purple Dragons? _ ” She repeated. “Is….Is that what Morgan was doing? Investigating the….the  _ Purple Dragons? _ ”

April nodded soberly. “It’s why he was killed,” she murmured.

Irma gaped. “April, you could end up  _ dead! _ ” She shot to her feet, waving her arms. “The Purple Dragons are the most ruthless street gang in New York City! There’s no line they won’t cross. They have no code, no morals, nothing!” Her voice raised steadily with each exclamation, panic creeping into her tone. She paused, lowering her arms as her eyes turned glassy. She blinked hard, biting her lower lip. “April….I know you’ve always wanted to chase the big scoops, but…..this is dangerous.”

“I know.” April blew out a heavy breath, bringing her manicured hands to her temples and rubbing. She swallowed the lump in her throat as Irma fell back into her chair. “I know it’s dangerous. But this-“ she picked up a page of Burch’s notes and shook it as her voice firmed, growing stronger. “ _ This _ is why I became a reporter. The danger isn’t part of the question. My job is to uncover the truth, for the people’s right to know, no matter the cost.” Her mind went back to the image of Morgan’s Burch’s body, and her stomach churned. “No matter the cost,” she whispered.

For a moment, the only sound was the clock, ticking on the wall.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Irma said quietly.

April smiled wryly. “That makes two of us. Are you going to help or not?”

Irma nodded firmly, reaching for the papers on the floor. “Certainly.”

The pair worked in silence for a few minutes, shuffling through page after page of notes, all in Morgan Burch’s cramped, rushed handwriting. April’s forehead creased as a headache began to build, eyes aching. She scanned a list of addresses, full lips twisting into a frustrated frown. 

“There are no names with any of these. How on earth did he keep any of these straight?”

Irma looked up again, blinking owlishly. There was a red tinge to her eyes, but as of now, they were still dry. “Morgan told me once that if he wrote down an address, he remembered the place and the situation, and  _ then  _ the person and how to contact them. He said he couldn’t remember names by themselves. He never liked writing things down.”

April stared at the paper. “So…...these are all places he met with sources.”

Irma nodded. “Presumably.” She sniffled and reached up, adjusting her blocky glasses. “Why? I thought we were looking for his research.”

April’s mind raced, going back to the picture of the smashed tape recorder. “He didn’t like writing anything down,” she said slowly. “Is that what you said?”

Irma nodded again, tilting her head quizzically. “Yes, why? What are you thinking, April?”

April looked back at the list of addresses, sitting up straighter as she hunted through them. “There is no research here,” she groaned. “It was all on the recorder.”

“So we have nothing to go on?!”

“Not nothing.” April’s head snapped up, her blue eyes wide as she stood, reaching across the desk to shaking the paper in Irma’s face. “Do you know where this is?!”

Irma jolted backwards, shrugging. “Should I?” 

April slammed the paper on the desk, pointing to one address towards the bottom of the list. “This address is the same street as Angel’s Gym,” she proclaimed triumphantly.

The bespectacled brunette stared, bewildered. “The gym Spike goes to?”

“Yes.” April shoved the slip of paper into her pocket, hands shaking, with excitement or fear, she wasn’t sure. “Angel’s Gym is on the closest thing to neutral ground that Angel Bridge could find. The border of Purple Dragon Territory.” She turned, grabbing her purse. “I’m punching out, Irma. I’ve got to go. Can you clean this up for me?”

“You can’t go there by yourself,” Irma protested, standing up as well. “They won’t answer questions from you!” She reached across the cluttered desk, clutching at April’s arm. “You can’t go alone.”

“I know.” April shrugged off her hand, sprinting to the door. “And don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?!” Irma grabbed a handful of papers, shuffling them into a haphazard pile as she turned to follow. “You need someone to go with you! I can-” 

“No thanks, Irma!” April turned as she yanked the door open, a half-smile on her face. “I have someone else in mind.”

With that she was gone, slamming the door behind her.


	2. Angel's Champion

Sweat and blood splattered the floor of the ring as the fighters exchanged blows, staggering back under the force of the punches. The smaller of the two was almost grinning around the mouth guard, an ugly, humorless expression further marred by the pulverized state of his face. The larger snarled, split lip contorting as a fresh trickle of blood spurted from the wound. 

They clashed together again, exchanging a furious flurry of blows as the crowd screamed for more, shouting encouragement to their respective fighters, anxiously watching to see whether or not their bets were paying off.

The bell rang. The fighters separated, already preparing for the next brutal round.

The Unbreakable Spike Sanchez lurched back into her corner, broad chest and shoulders heaving with exertion. Her head and abdomen throbbed, competing for her attention as she sat down heavily, glaring through her unswollen left eye. Her knuckles ached, lungs and muscles burning.

“You’re close, Champ.” The cool, calm voice of Angel Bridge was in her ear, barely audible over the dull noise of the crowd. “You’re bigger than him. You’re stronger than him. You’re a hundred and ninety eight pounds of a fighting machine. He can’t even get you off your feet. Show him why we call you ‘Unbreakable’.”

Spike dipped her head in acknowledgement, sweat pouring down her neck from the back of her shaggy mullet. Her gaze rose, steely grey eyes resting on her opponent on the other side of the ring. He too was panting, sweat rolling off of him as he sat, heavyset features set in a look of twisted pleasure as his dull eyes met hers. He jerked his chin and lifted his right arm, still grinning as he nodded towards it.

Spike refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at the mark. Her teeth ground against the mouthguard as she glowered, thick, heavy eyebrows bunching together as she ignored the splotch of purple ink on her opponent’s forearm. She knew what it meant. She knew what he was telling her.

She knew that Harry ‘Rocksteady’ Dickerson was a Purple Dragon.

After all, that was the reason the gym was packed so full tonight; the reason people shouted and jostled anxiously. That was the reason the tension in the air was high, why Angel had looked with grim pride and satisfaction at the betting tables at the beginning of the fight and proclaimed that  _ this  _ was the night that everything would change.

All of this, because Angel Bridge’s champion wanted to fight a Purple Dragon. People crowded around the ring, eager to see whether or not ‘Rocksteady’ would pound the ‘Unbreakable’ Spike Sanchez into her first loss, or whether Angel’s Champion would manage to beat down a member of the most ruthless street gang in New York City.

_ This was the night everything would change. _

The bell rang and Spike stood, muscles groaning as she pushed herself to her full six feet and three inches, bringing her huge, gloved fists up to guard her face as she moved back into the ring, all forceful motion, no grace, no elegance to her movements as she met Rocksteady in the middle.

Her arm pulled back, muscles bulging and flexing as she swung a cross-punch into his nose, twisting clumsily out of the way of a counter-strike. The blow clipped her square chin, knocking her off balance. The room was spinning, but she had to stay on her feet, had to keep fighting.

_ There was no way she could win.  _

Even if she beat Rocksteady in the ring, the Purple Dragons didn’t take losing well. They’d made that adamantly clear when Rocksteady’s mohawked partner had cornered her the week previously.

_ “When you mess with a Dragon, you get the fangs.” _

They’d come after her if she won.

That was why Rocksteady grinned as he just kept coming, kept on coming, bloodied and battered and grinning like a loon, brandishing that tattoo whenever he could as a reminder that she couldn’t win,  _ wouldn’t  _ win if she was smart.

Spike’s thin, busted lip pulled back in an equally ugly snarl as she shook the sweat from her eyes, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like a battledrum, gut tensing as she advanced, slamming her fist into his jaw once, twice, a third time and cracking him across the cheek.

“You’re dead,” he growled, words garbled around the mouthguard. 

Spike grunted, nostrils flaring.

Whether they came after her or not, right here, right now, in this ring - she was champion. Her body steeled itself as she pushed her advantage, ducking down, hammering blows into Rocksteady’s midsection. 

_ Show him why we call you Unbreakable. _

She roared as loudly as the crowd, throat hoarse and dry as she drew her right arm back one last time, bashing in his nose one last time with a sickening  _ crunch. _

He fell slowly, it seemed, with Spike standing over him, watching, good eye blazing as her blood ran hot through her veins and her heart and head pounded together. He struggled to rise to his feet, not soon enough.

The pair of fighters stared at each other as her arm was raised into the air:

_ “Winner by knockout, Spike Sanchez!” _

As Rocksteady’s partner hauled him to his feet, he was still grinning, blood in his teeth as he gathered the strength to raise his forearm one last time.

Spike turned away, hiding her wince of pain as Angel came up to her, escorting her off the grimy ring floor to the screams of the crowd in the dark, dingy gym room as Spike shut her good eye.

The Purple Dragons were right. She may have won the battle, she had the distinct feeling that it wasn’t going to end here.

* * *

Spike’s combat boots trudged down the deserted hallway, landing heavily on the soft carpet. She reached into her jeans pocket, feeling for a set of keys to apartment number 193, grimacing as her bruised knuckles scraped along the rough fabric.

She pulled the set of keys out, squinting with her unswollen eye at the doorknob as she unlocked it, shoving the door open with a grunt. Spike stepped into the warm kitchen, glancing at the no-doubt cold plate of food that sat at her place at the two-person kitchen table.

At the other spot at the table, April O’Neil started and sat bolt upright, nearly spilling the mug of tea that she held between her manicured hands, blinking as her bright, blue eyes focused on the large figure in the doorway.

“Hi,” she greeted overly brightly. “Did you win?”

Something was up. 

Spike closed the door behind her and gingerly shrugged off her leather jacket, tossing it onto her stool at the table and crossing to the freezer, boots clunking on the tile. “Yeah,” she rumbled suspiciously. “We got any ice?”

April shook her head, turning to watch. “I don’t think so. Is your nose-”

“S’fine. Ain’t broken.” Spike reached into the freezer, pulling out a package of frozen beef and holding it to her swollen eye, wincing as it made contact. She closed the freezer, turning and easing her large frame against it.

April looked her up and down, wrinkling her nose and forehead. “You look terrible.”

As if she didn’t know.

Spike shrugged one broad shoulder, testing the aching muscles. The blood trail from her nose to her chin had long since dried, and the bruises that lined her square jaw had darkened her tan skin to an unpleasant, purple color. Her thin bottom lip had been split neatly in half, and that wasn’t even mentioning the beating her abdomen had gotten. “Not half as bad as the other guy.”

“Was it a knockout?”

She shook her head, running one large hand through her shaggy mullet as she strode forward, collapsing onto the jacket-covered stool and grabbed a fork, turning over the cold chicken thigh on her plate. She considered the amount of pain her jaw was in, and reluctantly pushed the plate away. “How was work?” she asked huskily.

April stared at the tabletop, refusing to meet her gaze. She chewed on her lower lip, running her fingertips around the edge of the tea mug. “Not great,” she said quietly.

Spike’s thick eyebrows knitted together. “What happened? Fenwick givin’ ya a hard time again?”

“No.”

She ignored the stabbing headache settling in her forehead as her frown deepened. “Thompson?”

“No, nothing like that. In fact…...I got a pretty decent story assignment today.”

Spike readjusted the melting beef over her eye, waiting.

April let out a sigh. “Do you remember the reporter from the office who was killed last night? Morgan Burch?”

“Yeah.”

The redhead lifted her tea mug, continuing to focus her gaze on its contents. “Well…..he was investigating some stuff on a no-so-great side of town.” Finally, she glanced up reluctantly, meeting Spike’s eyes. “A side of town you tend to frequent. He got on the wrong side of the wrong people. The Purple Dragons.”

Spike’s aching jaw clenched.

April saw it, lifting her own chin. “Whatever he found, they killed him for it. Burne wants me to continue the story he was working on.” Her voice was firm, steady, already trying to be the final word on the subject.

Spike shot to her feet, sore muscles forgotten, nostrils flaring. The frozen beef clattered to the tile floor as she towered over April.

“ _ What?! _ ” she roared.

April was on her feet too, pointed chin jutting out and hands planted firmly on her hips. Her typically soft mouth set into a firm line, bright blue eyes blazing back as she leaned over the kitchen table. “You heard me,” she said quietly.

For a moment the two women stared each other down, Spike’s broad shoulders heaving as her fists clenched, April’s smaller frame rigid in a display of equal defiance.

Spike’s bruised and calloused hands gripped the edges of the kitchen table for a moment, relaxing slowly. “Thomspon wants ya to do  _ what? _ ” she asked hoarsely.

April’s shoulders slumped as she lowered her arms, face softening. “He wants me to continue where Burch left off,” she said quietly.

Spike’s chest felt tight, a strangling feeling winding its way into her gut as she fought to keep her temper in check. “Is he threatenin’ ta fire ya again?” she rumbled dangerously. 

April sat down again, reaching for her cup of tea. “No. Well….that’s not the only reason.”

“So he is threatenin’ ya.” Spike ground her jaw, flexing her hands, already picturing what might be left of that greaseball’s face when she was through with him.

April shook her head again, looking tired. “No, Spike. I have to do this….because I’m a reporter. I’ve been thinking about this for a few hours. The Journalist’s Creed. The people’s right to know. It’s my job to tell people, to expose the truth, even if it’s dangerous.  _ Especially _ when it’s dangerous.”

Spike folded her arms over her chest. “I won’t let you.”

“You can’t stop me.” April met her friend’s stare evenly. “I’m doing this. This is my chance to prove that I can be a real reporter. And a chance to earn some justice for Burch.”

Spike grunted in disagreement. “There are other reporters. Reporters that ain’t you.”

“I got the job because of you, Spike,” April said abruptly. “This is my one chance. You’ve known me almost my whole life. You know how much this career means, how hard I’ve worked. You know how I’ve given my all, again and again and  _ never _ been taken seriously as anything but a bubble-brain who’s only fit to report on fashion shows.”

“At least then you’re safe,” Spike barked back. “I know Dragons. They’re tough, an’ mean. They’ll do anythin’ to stay on top. They’ve already wasted Burch. They’ll waste you, too.”

There was a moment of silence. April took a sip of tea as Spike retrieved the frozen beef from the kitchen floor, re-applying it to her battered face.

“I’m taking this story, with or without you. Are you coming?”

Spike’s jaw ground once as she sat back down heavily. “We’ll go ta Angel’s tomorrow,” she muttered. “She might know if somethin’s up.”

She didn’t look up, didn’t want to see the grateful smile on April’s face as she murmured a “Thank you.” Even if she were hungry, she couldn’t eat. A cold feeling of dread settled itself in the pit of her stomach, rivaling the pounding in her skull.

* * *

Angel’s Gym was a small, compact, run-down building, a one-story structure that had the distinct appearance of being very close to caving in on itself. The exterior was shabby, run-down walls that looked even odder compared with the brand-new door that had recently been installed. 

It might not have been the cleanest or most efficient establishment, but it did boast one thing that no other gym could claim: it had the best woman fighter in the boxing underground in New York City.

Or so Angel claimed. April shifted her bag over her shoulder, glancing at the poster in the window of the gym as Spike moved past her, towards the door. “Angel’s really proud of you, huh?”

Spike turned, thick eyebrows knitting together. The dried blood from last night’s fight had long been cleaned away, but no amount of soap could scrub away the mottled purple-black bruises that liberally covered her face. A bandage crossed the bridge of her nose, covering split skin. 

“Huh?”

April indicated the poster.

_ Home Gym of Spike ‘Unbreakable’ Sanchez _

_ 26 Wins, 0 Losses, 17 Knockout _

_ 6’3, 198 lbs _

Spike glanced it over, shrugging one large shoulder. “I make her a lotta cash,” she said by way of explanation. “Angel’s been usin’ it ta fix the place up.”

April glanced at the new door skeptically. “I see.”

“Brace yourself.” Spike turned the handle, pushing open the door as April sucked in a last breath of relatively clean air.

The inside of the gym, if possible, worse than the outside.

The hot, humid air hit like a punch to the gut, followed by the stench of sweat and blood. April let her last breath air out reluctantly, gagging on the overpowering atmosphere.

The light was just bright enough to reveal the stains and grime on the walls and floor. The floors were slick with sweat in some places and gritty with dried blood in others, proclaiming the gym’s history with fighting better than any news story ever could. Gym regulars grunted and shouted, jumping rope, lifting weights, or using the sparring equipment. There were no windows in here, no way to air the place out.

Spike let the door close, leading the way into the room, shouldering her way through the sea of sweaty patrons. April stayed close behind, peering around her friend’s massive frame as she cleared a path. Many of the weightlifters nodded silently but respectfully, giving the pair as wide a berth as possible in the cramped room.

_ Another one of the benefits of being friends with the owner’s champion,  _ April thought wryly.

Spike raised one hand over her head, grey eyes fixed on a spot in the crowd over April’s head. “Carl!” she barked.

A stocky, bulky figure with a towel draped around his thick neck pushed his way towards them, a cocky half smile spreading across his face. “Sanchez! Congratulations on your fight last night. I hear it was quite a beating.” He paused, looking her up and down. “I  _ see  _ it was quite a 

beating.”

Spike inclined her head. “Had worse.”

Carl grinned, slapping Spike’s shoulder. “Always the tough talker. Another victory for Angel’s Champion, then.”

Spike nodded, thin lips pressed into a hard line. “Where’s Angel, Carl?”

He paused, glancing between the two. “Her office. Trouble?”

April stepped forward, speaking for the first time. “I just want to ask her a few questions.”

Carl’s eyebrows flew up. “Questions?”

Spike cleared her throat. “’Bout my trainin’. April’s complainin’ about the grocery bill an’ all the time here.”

April opened her mouth for a second, ready to correct her friend, before she saw the warning look on her face. “Right. Groceries. Too many eggs and all that.”

Carl’s look of apprehension faded and he nodded, understandingly. “Feeding a fighter is hard work. You must be Sanchez’s roommate.”

April nodded, forehead wrinkling. “Yes.”

Spike nodded, raising her head and glancing over the crowded room. “Thanks, Carl. I’ll see ya.”

“Probably will.” Carl nodded back. “Pleasure to meet ya.”

“Likewise,” April replied.

“C’mon.” Spike pushed her way through the gym area, heading for the back wall. “Angel’s office is this way.”

“Why did you shut me up like that?” April asked quietly as she followed. Her white shoes clacked on the concrete floor beside the distinctive  _ thump  _ of Spike’s dark combat boots as she tried to keep up with her friend’s longer strides.

“If people know that you’re in here pokin’ around as anythin’ other than my friend, people’ll start gettin’ jumpy,” Spike explained, lowering her voice. She reached the door, twisting the handle and yanking it open. The door swung outwards, squeaking in protest on uncared-for hinges. “We’re on the edge of Dragon territory, closest ta neutral ground. We got a couple of members of other gangs in here. Nobody in here knows you’re a reporter ‘cept Angel and me, an’ that’s how we’re gonna keep it.”

“Let me guess, for my protection?”

Spike paused, glancing down at her and nodding. “Angel’s office is on the next floor.” She jerked her head at the stairwell on the other side of the door. “After you.”

“You’re too paranoid,” April sighed, shifting her bag. She stepped forward, reached for the spiraling railing, and began to climb. Spike’s voice drifted up after her.

“An’ you ain’t paranoid enough.”

* * *

Angel Bridge was a middle-aged professional woman who had inherited the gym from her late husband. In the ten years since Mr. Bridge’s passing, Angel had changed the name of the gym and began to use her head for business to improve the place, starting with sponsoring Spike, and using the subsequent success to begin making slow enhancements to the building itself. She was calm, collected, and absolutely unshakeable.

April would have liked her, had it not been for the fact that she  _ was,  _ in fact, sponsoring Spike.

The worn wooden door to the office creaked open, revealing a cramped room containing a desk and two chairs. The smell of old cigarette smoke filled the air, trapped in the dark walls. The only light in the room was from a dim lamp that sat on the edge of the small, shabby desk, just 

barely illuminating the person who sat behind it.

Angel Bridge looked up from behind the desk, dark eyes sparking with interest. “Spike, my dear, I hope you’re not in here for training. I told you to take a day off.”

Spike shook her head, slamming the door behind her. “’M not. My friend here wants to talk to you.”

Angel leaned back, folding her slim arms over her chest. She eyed April, glancing her up and down. “Ms. O’Neil.”

“Ms. Bridge.” April inclined her head.

A dry smile quirked the edges of Angel’s lips. “I hope this isn’t about Spike’s salary. You know I treat her the best I can.”

April gave a tense approximation of a smile back. “I know. Wouldn’t want to harm your most profitable commodity.”

“Now now, honey, you know I don’t think of Spike like that. She’s my best fighter, sure, but I like to think I think of them as people, too.” Angel gestured at the battered arm chair across the desk from her. “Care to sit down?”

The redhead glanced around the tight, dark room as she slowly sat down. Spike took a step closer, folding her arms and standing by her right shoulder. April’s hand dug into her pocket, clenching around the address Burch had left as she tried to match Angel’s cool expression.

“I’m here to ask a few questions. As a reporter.”

Angel arched one eyebrow. “You know our deal.”

“Not those kinds of questions.”

“Hmm. What kind of questions, then?”

“Just asking if you’ve seen anything…unusual around here.”

Angel threw back her head gave a deep, fruity laugh. “We’re in New York City, dear.”

“Unusual as in Purple Dragon business.” April reached into her bag and pulled out the precious scrap of paper with the nearby address scrawled on it, placing it on the table. “Specifically here.”

Angel leaned forward, clasping her long, slim, brown fingers together. “Now that  _ is _ interesting.”

“Someone was meeting a Dragon informant there,” April explained.

“Was?”

“Dragons bumped ‘im off,” Spike rumbled. “We jus’ wanna know if you’ve seen anythin’ funny goin’ on around here.”

Angel let out a breath, sitting back in her chair and unclasping her hands. “Well, April, honey, you know I try to run an honest business and keep my nose out of gang affairs, but I do hear things.” She gestured. “In an area like this, I can’t help it. It’s better to be informed than dead.”

“Get to the point,” April said impatiently.

“The biggest news on the street is that the Purple Dragons are gearing up for another turf war. With everybody. McFingers, Turtelli, Big Louie, the Cleaver brothers...They’re spreading out, taking the whole city.”

April patted her pockets frantically, searching for her reporter’s utensils. “How on earth can they do that?”

Spike reached into the pockets of her leather jacket and produced a pencil and a pad of paper, holding them out. “Here.”

April grabbed at them distractedly. “Thanks.” She scribbled furiously. “How can they do that?” she repeated.

“The Dragons are tough alright, but they ain’t that tough,” Spike agreed. “If they try ta take on four gangs at once, they’re toast.”

“Normally I’d agree with you. I’d usually chalk this up to a simple case of leadership getting cocky, but the fact is, they’re confident. Something’s going down, something big that’s going shake this town up.”

April’s mind raced, going back to her conversation with Burne. “So you think the rumors about another group allying themselves with the Dragons is true?”

“It’s possible.” Angel spread her hands. “Can I help you with anything else?”

April dug her hands into her bag again, rummaging for a few seconds before grabbing a crumpled photograph. She pulled it out, turning it to face Angel. “Do you recognize this guy?”

Angel reached forward, taking the photograph and studying it in the dim light. “Maybe. This is your....recently deceased co-worker, I assume?”

April nodded.

Spike jabbed one calloused finger at the desktop. “We’re lookin’ for the guy Burch talked to. Would have had to be part of the Dragons.”

Angel glanced up. “Not necessarily. With all of the gangs searching for advantages, many of them have spies planted in each gang.” She shrugged. “Of course, everyone’s got a spy for everyone else, which is why it’s been a stalemate for so many years. This deal with this new partner is going to change that, shift the balance.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t seem to remember any meetings at that address, or anywhere around here, for that matter. I just keep my head down and run my business.”

April raised an eyebrow and glanced over her shoulder, making eye contact with Spike.

Spike nodded curtly, stepping forward. “Angel, I know ya know people. You got informants, people who can find out who Burch was meetin’, if ya don’t know already.”

Angel met Spike’s stare easily, standing and rising to her full height, only a few inches shorter than the fighter. “I need to stay informed, honey. You know that it’s the only way to stay afloat in this part of town. The gangs leave me alone because I’m in the middle, and I leave  _ them  _ alone. I let them come, use, and fight in my gym, even against you, against my better judgement. If any of them, on any side, find out that I told a reporter how to find them, I’m through.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed, hardening into steel points. “Somebody told Burch how to find ‘em.”

“And look what happened to him,” Angel pointed out. “If they knew who told him, they’d be iced too.”

“Did you tell him?” April was on her feet now too, folding her arms over her chest.

Angel’s gaze flickered. She looked away. “For a price.”

April’s voice was bitter, brittle as she forced the words past her lips. “How much?”

“Enough to pay for that new door I’ve been wanting,” Angel said. Her voice was quiet, but April heard every word. “I want to fix this place up, O’Neil. Make it a good business. I want to treat my fighters well.”

Spike’s split lip twisted in disgust. “Ain’t worth a man’s life.”

“I didn’t know they’d find out.” Angel turned, lowering her head. “Figured he’d find the guy, get his information, and nobody would know. Turns out the Dragons were smarter than I gave them credit for. Still not smart enough to figure out who squealed, though.”

“How do you know that they don’t know?” April asked.

Angel laughed, a humorless chuckle. “Simple, my dear. He’s still alive. But I’m through, dear. I won’t send another wide-eyed reporter to their death.” She glanced at Spike. “Especially not the best friend of my best fighter.”

There was no questioning the note of finality. April’s shoulders slumped as her grip on her pencil tightened with frustration and defeat. She snatched the address and photograph off the desk. Her mind was already working ahead, trying to figure out where to go from here. Maybe she could wait and watch the place where Burch met his informant, or disguise herself and try to find out from other people.

April blew out a deep breath, glancing over her shoulder. “Thank you for your time, Angel.”

Angel inclined her head without turning to face her. “It’s no trouble. Anything for a friend of Spike’s.”

“Anything except actual help,” April retorted. “Come on, Spike. Let’s go.”

Her hand was turning the doorknob before she realized Spike hadn’t moved. She rotated, thin eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “Spike?”

Spike was motionless, rooted to the spot before the desk, arms folded, chin jutted forward, shoulders bunched with tension. She leaned forward slightly, speaking in a low, soft rumble:

“Tell her who ya sent Burch to, Angel.”

For the first time, Angel seemed surprised. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Angel turned, letting her arms fall to her sides. “I didn’t think you would be encouraging this, my dear. I’d assume you’d want her as far away from this as possible.”

“I do,” Spike said heavily.

“Yet here you are.”

Spike gritted her teeth. “Listen, Angel. April’s job….s’ her life. This matters ta her. An’ I don’t like it one bit, but her job’s on the line, an’ if she doesn’t get this, she’s through.” She uncrossed her arms as well, mirroring Angel’s stance. The larger woman took a step back, turning her calloused palms up. “Please, Angel. For me an’ all I done for this place.”

Angel pursed her lips, shaking her head. “You’re a hard-headed fool, honey.”

Spike’s thin lips quirked. “Ya told me that before.”

The tall, thin woman sank down into her chair again, breathing out a long, slow exhale. “I shouldn’t do this, O’Neil.”

April nodded wordlessly, gripping the strap of her bag as she stepped forward uncertainly.

Angel leaned forward conspiratorially. “They call him The Bystander.”

April raised her pencil to the crumpled sheet of paper and scribbled. “The Bystander?”

“You’ll figure it out soon enough,” Angel explained. “Jeremy Dallas. He’s a soldier. He’s easy to crack.”

“How do I find him?”

Angel gestured at her bag. “Go to that address that you’ve got. He comes around every night at six to have a smoke.”

The reporter stuffed her paper in a pocket of her yellow jumpsuit. “Thank you, Angel. Honestly this time.”

Angel gave a dry smile. “Anything for a friend of Spike’s.”

Spike gave a curt nod, turning towards the door.

“One more thing,” Angel added. “Be on your guard, both of you. April especially.”

“Don’t worry,” Spike muttered. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to her.” She glanced at April, a hard set in her jaw. “She’s safe with me.”

“I believe that. But it’d make me feel better if you promise to be careful.”

Spike paused for an instant, hand on the doorknob. “I will.”

As the door creaked open, Angel relaxed back into her chair, watching the pair leave. “Good,” she murmured. “You’ll need to be.”


	3. The Bystander

_ 5:47 _

Spike’s combat boots  _ thudded  _ on the ground, muffled only slightly by the layer of trash on the alley floor. Her heart echoed the sound, pounding steadily in her chest.

It was a comforting, familiar feeling. The feeling she got before a fight. She could feel it in her gut, a roiling sensation.

She reached the end of the alley, pausing at the edge of the small, unassuming building to glance at her own watch.

_ 5:51 _

Her jaw ground, making the bruised muscles in her face ache. She ignored the nagging pains from the previous night’s match, focusing on what was ahead, thinking of methods of information-extraction, or what should happen if Hallas wasn’t alone.

Her frown deepened.

_ April shouldn’t be here. _

Spike turned, glancing towards the other end of the alley, where April sat on a crate, looking at her watch. In her right hand, she grasped a tape recorder with a white-knuckle grip, the only betrayal of her otherwise calm exterior.

Spike shoved her hands into her pockets, hunching her broad shoulders. It was too late to convince April to stay with Angel. Even if it wasn’t, arguing with April was notoriously time-consuming. And often in vain.

Her thin lips twisted in a grimace. To try to convince April to stay away from this story would be like trying to keep a moth from a flame. She blew out a sigh, watching her breath dissipate into the chilly December air. The pair were evenly matched, both in possession of stubborn wills of iron. It was only their longstanding friendship that had ever managed to solve any of their arguments peaceably.

She checked her watch again.  _ 5:56. _

Any minute now.

She cracked her knuckles, hard eyes fixed on the door of the building she was watching as it swung open, revealing a short, lean man in a vividly bright suit.

He took a step onto the sidewalk, letting the door close behind him as he pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He paused, turning his head side to side as he held the cigar with unsteady hands.

Spike turned to April, silently jerking her head towards the door. April shot to her feet, fingers clenched around the tape recorder as she hurried down the alley, around the corner of the building.

“Yes, hello? Is someone there?” The man took a step back, a noticeable wobble in his voice. 

His other hand reached into his jacket, as he began to turn. The cigar dropped to the sidewalk, forgotten.

_ He’s armed. _

Spike threw her arm out, blocking April’s path. The redhead stopped, confused as Spike held out her hand for the tape recorder, keeping her eyes on the foot soldier.

April placed the recorder into her palm, tugging on Spike’s leather jacket sleeve. “Is it him?” she whispered.

Spike nodded once, a curt movement. “He’s got a gun,” she murmured. “Get. Back.”

April’s eyes widened and she nodded, moving back to press herself against the opposite building. Spike shoved the recorder into her pocket, taking a step past the cover of the building. 

“Dallas.”

The man turned, hand still in his jacket. “Sanchez,” he breathed. He relaxed, chuckling. “You’re a fool to come to our turf unarmed after last night.”

“Who says I’m unarmed?” Spike shoved both hands into her pockets, shifting her weight. “Ya should’ve known better than to try ta force me to take a dive.”

“Nobody ignores the Purple Dragons.” Dallas grinned, a slow, sly expression on his angular features. “Even if you are armed, you’re outnumbered. All I have to do is shout, and my boys will be out here in seconds. By the time they’re finished, you’ll be full of more holes than a colander.”

“I don’t think you’re gonna do that,” Spike remarked, taking a step forward. “See, if your boys came out, I’d have ta tell ‘em that you’re their rat.”

Dallas’s grin disappeared. “What?”

“How much did Burch pay ya to snitch, Dallas?” Spike shifted her weight again, pulling her hands out of her pockets, pressing the ‘record’ button on the tape recorder as she did so. She folded her arms across her chest. “What’d he promise ya?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sanchez.” A bead of sweat trickled from Dallas’s greasy hairline, even more remarkable in the December evening.

“I think you do.” April appeared at Spike’s elbow, stepping out from around her and mirroring her stance. “I’ve got some very reliable information that says that you used to meet Morgan Burch at this exact spot, in fact.”

Dallas’s face turned pale. “You’re bluffing.”

Spike might not have had April’s ‘reporter instincts’, but she knew a scared man when she saw one. Her eyes flickered to his arms, covered by his suit sleeves. The mark of the Purple Dragon tattoo was just visible on his right wrist. The skin itself was unblemished, unbroken with scars or callouses.

‘The Bystander’ was a fitting handle after all.

April sighed. “Please, Mr. Dallas. It’d be much easier if you just told us what you told Burch.”

He cleared his throat, pulling his hand from his coat, empty. He slowly raised his hands, palms up in a shrug. “I have nothing to say to you. If you’re smart, you’ll get outta here before-ulp!”

Spike’s arm shot out, calloused fingers wrapping around the lapel of his coat. “The lady wants to talk,” she growled. “How ‘bout ya make this quick and cooperate?”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to talk,” Dallas wheezed. “The last time I did, someone ended up dead.”

“An’ I noticed it wasn’t you.”

April tapped her pencil against her pad. “Let’s move this to a little more private location.”

Spike nodded, tightening her grip and pulling the smaller man into the alley. She swung her arm around, using it to press him up against the wall beside the dumpster. Her shoulder muscle, sore from the match, protested. She grit her teeth, glaring down into the man’s angular face. “Tell us what you told Burch,” she rumbled.

Dallas laughed, a high, reedy sound. “Yes, and get knifed down too, I suppose.” He shifted. 

“Listen, you’re right about Burch. I did talk to him, gave him some information.” He snorted. “Look where it got him.”

“How much did he pay you?” April demanded. Her hands were shaking, eyes bright and fierce. “What did he promise? Anonymity?”

“Anonymity and five grand.” Dallas shoved at Spike’s wrist. “Loosen up a little. You’re rumpling the suit.”

Spike’s grip tightened. “Did ya get it?”

“Well, he never lived long enough to get the story, did he?”

“She meant the money.” April’s voice was sharp, hard edged, an unnatural, biting sound. “Did he get any of it to you before he was caught?”

“He gave me half of it up front. When he finished the story, he planned to give me the other half. Guess I should have had it  _ all _ up front.”

April’s pencil touched the pad. “Tell us what you told Burch.”

“Or what?”

“Or we’ll tell the Dragons that you were his contact,” April said firmly.

Dallas looked her up and down, raising his thin eyebrows. “I don’t think so. You don’t look like the kind of woman who’d want blood on her hands, even if it was only mine.”

Spike’s eyes hardened. “How ‘bout me?”

“I don’t think you’d mind my loss too much. I also don’t think you’d do anything to me that wasn’t sanctioned by your friend here.” Dallas smirked coolly. “You may be a monster in the ring, Sanchez, and you may have thrashed Rocksteady worse than any other fighter I’ve ever seen, but I don’t think you’d allow a man to be killed in cold blood. Especially when your friend doesn’t want you to.”

Spike’s grip faltered for an instant. 

“They call me the Bystander because I don’t like to get involved.” Dallas shrugged. “I made that mistake once. Not again. I got lucky the first time. If I say again, the Dragons’ll want my head as well as yours. Take my advice, sweetheart. Stick to reporting fashion shows.”

April glanced at Spike and gave a short nod. Spike abruptly released her grip.

Dallas smoothed his lapels. “Thanks. If you ladies are finished, I’ll be on my way. Wasted a perfectly good cigar, you know.”

April scribbled something on her notebook, tearing off the paper and holding it out. “If you change your mind, you know where to look.”

“I highly doubt I’ll need to.”

April’s lips pressed into a hard line. “I don’t give up easily.”

Dallas turned, sharp, bright eyes glittering as he looked the reporter over once more. A flicker of something like surprise crossed his face. “I believe that. We’re at an impasse, ma’am, and if I weren’t so against doing my own dirty work, I’d be tempted to off you myself.”

April started. Spike took a threatening step towards the smaller man.

He shrugged, inclining his head. “Here’s some advice: stay out of other people’s business. You’ll live longer.” He reached forward, taking the slip of paper from April’s hand. “If I ever get a death wish, I’ll give you a call. See you around.”

The pair watched him walk to the end of the alley, turning the corner and disappearing back into the building, taking April’s story with him.

* * *

“That was stupid,” Spike growled, slamming the door to the apartment behind her. “You shouldn’t have given him our number. If the Dragons find it on ‘im….”

April threw her notebook at the small couch in the apartment, practically stomping through the tiny living room. “So close,” she fumed. “So close!” She sat down hard, clenching fists and pressing them to her temples. “What is Burne going to say when he hears about this?”

“Thompson don’t matter.” Spike paced the length of the living room, space too small for her body. Her heart was pounding faster than she’d like it to be, gut roiling in an unpleasant way. She felt like she was bursting out of her skin, pressure high, worse than any fight she’d ever been in. She glanced up at April. “If the Dragons find that piece of paper, they’ll kill you.”

“If I don’t get that story,  _ my boss  _ will kill me,” April retorted. She rubbed her temples, slowly relaxing her hands. “What are we going to do? Angel doesn’t have any more information, Dallas won’t spill….we aren’t in contact with anybody else who might be able to help. It’s not like we spend a lot of time with gang members.”

Spike cracked her knuckles, back muscles tensing and bunching. “I shoulda pounded ‘im.”

“Then they would have known something happened,” April said wearily. “Like you said. We’d be dead by now if you had beat him up. We took the safe route.”

Spike gritted her teeth and grunted in disagreement. “The safe route would have been ta forget the whole thing when Thompson assigned it to ya.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

Spike stopped pacing. “How ‘bout now?”

The redhead raised her head, looking quizzical. “What do you mean?”

Spike shrugged, turning to face her. “Ya tried to get the story. You can quit now.”

April sat back, brow furrowing. “You know I can’t do that.”

“April, this is dangerous!” Spike thundered, throwing her arms in the air. “Ya can’t just march into gang territory an’ start investigatin’! We’re lucky we got as far as we did!”

The reporter watched her calmly, waiting for the temper-flare to die down.

“I shouldn’t have asked Angel ta help,” Spike continued, turning to pace the length of the room again. “Shoulda just walked out. Shoulda stopped ya from goin’ after this story in the first place. Your career is gonna be the death of ya, April, an’ I can’t let that happen.”

April cocked her head, frowning. “Are you done?” she demanded.

Spike turned to her, short strands of coarse hair falling into her eyes. “I promised I wouldn’t let anythin’ happen ta ya, April,” she said hoarsely. “An’ I haven’t. But if you keep this up, I can’t keep protectin’ ya.”

“Spike, I don’t need protection.  _ I’m  _ not the one prize-fighting Purple Dragons. When were you going to tell me that  _ that’s  _ who you were fighting, by the way?”

“Didn’t want you ta worry.”

“Uh-huh.” April stood up, putting her hands on her hips. “And the fact that you refused to take a dive for one of the most dangerous gangs in New York City? When were you going to inform me of that?”

Spike grimaced, turning away and shrugging one shoulder. “Wasn’t.”

April crossed her arms. “And you say I’m reckless.”

“You are.”

“Not half as reckless as you are. What, my safety is the only one that matters? You can throw yourself into oncoming traffic, but as long as I stay on the sidewalk, it’s a win?”

“I can take care of myself.”

“And I can’t?!” April stomped forward, nose-to-chest with her friend, chin up, eyes flashing. “Now we’re  _ both  _ in trouble with the Dragons, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up!”

Spike’s jaw ground, irritating the ache in her facial muscles. “Don’t do it, April. Don’t keep after this one.”

“Why shouldn’t I?!” April cried.

“Because there are people who care about you!” Spike roared. “Don’t you care ‘bout anyone besides yourself an’ your career?”

April threw her arms up. “What, so you’re just going to turn it around and make it about you? About your promise, how you try so hard to shelter me and keep me safe?”

“This ain’t ‘bout me at all! If you’re gonna be like this ‘bout it, go right ahead! See if I care!” Spike yanked off her leather jacket, whipping it onto the couch behind April. The color drained from her face, leaving it pale and drawn. She sat down on the couch, hard, refusing to look at April. Her gaze dropped to her bruised knuckles. “I promised, April,” she whispered gruffly. “I can’t let anythin’ happen to ya. I promised. You know why.”

April sat down beside her and took a deep breath. “I know,” she said quietly. “I understand, believe me. I know why it’s important to you that I stay safe. But  _ you  _ have to understand that this isn’t a safe job, and I don’t want it to be.” She paused. “I need you on my side here.”

Spike ran a hand through her shaggy mullet, closing her eyes against April’s words. “Ya don’t know what you’re gettin’ into.”

“Of course I don’t. That’s why I need you.” April smiled slightly. “We don’t give up, remember? We’ll find a way to get the information we need.”

Spike’s eyes opened a crack, sliding over and narrowing. “Ya have an idea?”

“Something like that.” April stood up and began to pace. “We can’t approach Burch’s contact again, so we need to get them to approach us. A way to get the Dragons out of hiding. An offer they can’t refuse.” She turned, facing Spike. “Something they’re interested in. Information?”

“They got spies in every other gang in the city. They could get information from any of ‘em. If ya want the Dragons to come to us, we need ta give ‘em somethin’ they can’t get anywhere else.” Spike rose to her feet stiffly. “Draw ‘em out with that. If Dallas is smart, which I doubt, he’ll cough up what we want right away so we don’t tell the rest of his crew”

“What do we have that they’d want?”

“Easy.” Spike lifted her chin. “A rematch.”


	4. Sleepless Night

April’s mouth dropped open. “A rematch?!”

Spike nodded. “Makes sense, don’t it?”

“No!” April threw her arms out to the sides. “I mean yes, but that doesn’t mean I want you to do it! You’re still recovering from your  _ last  _ beating, and I hate when you fight-”

“An’ I hate when ya investigate a street gang,” Spike retorted, thick eyebrows bunching. “The Dragons lost once. That’s a blow to their rep. A rematch is even better than killin’ me, ‘cause it’ll prove that they can still win.”

April opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out. She snapped it shut again, frowning. “Alright, fine. We offer a rematch. How would we do that?”

“Angel’ll know who ta contact. When she sets up a meetin’, we’ll go an’ we can talk to Dallas.”

“We’ll get him to talk on tape,” April said slowly. “It doesn’t seem ethical.”

“If ya wanna quit, that’s fine with me.”

“I bet.” April sighed. “I don’t want to resort to blackmail, if at all possible.”

“Got any other ideas?”

“If I think of any, I’ll certainly let you know.” April resumed pacing. “If we can convince him to tell us willingly-”

“You wanna know those odds?”

“Not really.” April blew out a breath. “We can try, though, right?”

“Sure. An’ maybe Dallas’ll give up and turn himself in to the cops.”

April turned a scathing look on her friend. Spike shrugged, leaning back on the couch.

“Dragons are tough, an’ they’re on top. They ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Cops are in their pocket, and  _ most  _ reporters know better than ta stick their noses into their business.” She deepened her frown pointedly at April. “Point is, if you want this story, ya gotta play dirty for it. Ain’t like the Dragons are gonna drop the information into our laps.”

The redhead grimaced. “I know.” She turned, staring at the notebook on the couch. Spike leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

“It’s our only shot, April.”

“You’re in no shape to fight again,” April pointed out, gesturing. “You still look like you got on the wrong end of a meat grinder.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m serious. It’s too soon. Won’t they be suspicious?”

Spike shrugged. “Probably.” She pushed her coarse hair out of her eyes. “We don’t have to do it if ya don’t want to.”

“I want to.” April’s voice was firm with a strength she wasn’t sure was genuine. “After all. It’s our only shot.” She turned to look at Spike, raising her chin. “It’s  _ my  _ only shot.”

The two stared at each other in silence for a few seconds before Spike stood, slowly, towering over April as her gaze hardened. 

“I’ll call Angel.”

* * *

Spike woke from her light sleep with a heavy, swirling, foreign feeling coiling through her chest and abdomen, squeezing her ribs, strangling her throat. The thin blanket that covered the couch was crumpled on the floor, tossed in a fit of restless movement. Her head ached, but this time, it wasn’t from the fight.

Spike sat up, grimacing at the movement as her stomach roiled, chest constricting. Every nerve was on alert, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end, screaming at her that something was wrong.

Just like they had been doing since she’d come home the night of the fight. Another restless night, this one worse than the first.

So bad that she’d decided to sleep on the couch, closer to the door, rather than her own room.

_ Just in case. _

Just in case April needed her. In case someone broke in. In case someone came for April the same way they’d come for Burch.

The thought sent a jolt through her like a bolt of electricity, and the tightness around her stomach and throat redoubled in strength. She shot to her feet, socks slipping on the carpet as she gasped for breath, gripping her faded t-shirt with a calloused hand as her eyes widened, pupils dilated.

This feeling she knew well enough. Fear.

Fear for April.

Spike squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth and riding the wave out, waiting for her breath to return to normal, for her chest to loosen. After a moment, she opened her eyes slowly, craning her neck to squint at the clock in the dark.

_ 2:39 _

She grimaced and stood up, running a hand through her hair. She strode across the carpeted living room, pausing outside April’s bedroom. If she were to listen, she could  _ just  _ make out the barest trace of noise, of sheets rustling, of slight snoring. Just enough to put her mind at rest, just enough to remind her that all was well, that April was safe.

That’s all Spike needed.

She turned away, heading for the kitchen, blinking the sleep out of her eyes as she made for the refrigerator in search of the leftovers from the night of the fight. Whether she was hungry or not, she wasn’t sure, but it was something to do, something to keep her from going back to sleep. Something to block out the thought of April in trouble.

She opened the refrigerator door and reached for a plate of cold chicken, pulling out a drumstick and closing the door, turning and leaning against it as she gnawed on the meat, her brow creasing.

In a few hours, the news would get out that Spike Sanchez wanted a rematch against Harry Dickerson. Spike grimaced at the thought. Her ribs still ached from the pounding they’d gotten; it was a miracle they weren’t broken.

And here she was, preparing to go  _ ask  _ for another beating.

She must be crazy.

Her eyes ached, half from the swelling and half from lack of sleep. She stifled a yawn, slumping at the kitchen table, holding her drumstick.

In the living room, something shifted.

Spike’s head snapped up, nerves on alert as a figure moved into the doorway of the kitchen.

“What are you doing up?” April asked groggily, wrapping her arms around herself. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Spike tore a hunk of meat off with her fingers, forcing her muscles to relax. “Hungry.” Her voice was raspy, thick from disuse.

April leaned against the doorway, blinking slowly. “You’re always hungry. Can’t it wait until breakfast?”

Spike shrugged one shoulder. “Go back to bed.”

“When you do.” April yawned. “You can’t exactly defend me if you’re overtired. Go to sleep.”

A corner of Spike’s lip twitched downward. “No thanks.”

April was right, of course. If she wanted to be in top condition to make sure they didn’t get killed, sleep was necessary. She knew that.

But if she went back to sleep, she’d be blind and deaf to the world. There’d be nobody to protect from a night attack.

And she could push the fear back if she was awake.

April folded her arms, looking much less determined than she would have if she were fully awake. “Spike. You’re not going to be much help if you’re half asleep all day.”

Spike ran her thumb over the bone in her hands, now stripped of meat. “I know. Jus’ gimme a minute.” She stood up, tossing the bone into the garbage can absently. “I’ll get to sleep in a minute. Jus’ was hungry, that’s all.”

“You’re on edge.”

“No kiddin’. We’ve got a dangerous street gang out for both our heads.”

“Worrying about it isn’t going to help us.” April uncrossed her arms, shaking her head groggily. “It’ll make everything worse.” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, looking up in a moment of clarity. “Tomorrow, we’ll get to work. We’ll get our story, and then the Dragons won’t be able to bother us any more at all. We’re only in danger as long as I don’t have anything to incriminate them with.” She took a step forward, placing a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “And then you won’t have to worry.”

“I always worry ‘bout you,” Spike muttered. “You’re problem s’that ya never worry ‘bout yourself.”

“You do a good enough job for the both of us.” April let her hand drop, stifling another yawn. “I’m going back to bed. You better do the same.”

Spike turned away, planting her hands on the counter and leaning over the sink. “I will. In a minute.” She sucked a deep breath through her nose, holding it and listening to April turn and shuffle her way back into the living room.

A tendril of fear wound its way back up her chest, squeezing it tightly again. Spike shut her eyes, gritting her teeth against it, and willing it back down.

She could keep it down long enough for April to get her story. After that, it’d be over with the Dragons. April would have her story, get her respect, never have to do anything dangerous again. The terror that froze her veins for her friend’s sake would be gone.

With any luck, for good.


	5. A Gunshot in the Alley

Angel had done good work. Within twelve hours, every gang in New York City would have heard either the news itself, or a twisted variation of it: Spike Sanchez was proposing a rematch with 'Rocksteady' Dickerson of the Purple Dragons in two months.

Angel didn't like it. Neither did Spike.

Frankly, neither did April.

Now, all they had to do was wait for the call for the meeting.

The pair sat in their apartment, April nervously tapping her nails against the kitchen counter as she stared at the phone. Spike paced the living room carpet, gritting her teeth and cracking her knuckles, fighting down the tightness in her chest and throat. Angel would be calling any time to let them know about a meeting to set up. The meager meals that Spike had downed earlier in the day roiled in her stomach.

At 4:34 PM, the phone at the apartment rang.

April dove for it, fingers closing around the slim neck of the telephone and yanking it to her ear, wild-eyed and breathless as she replied: "Yes? Angel?"

Spike was at her side in an instant, chin jutting forward and head inclined towards the phone, straining to hear the conversation on the other side. April's face turned white as a sheet, reaching her fingers out to grip at the edge of the table. She swallowed hard.

"Who is it?" Spike hissed. A stab of borderline panic sliced through her chest.

April glanced up, still pale, motioning for a pencil and paper. Spike rummaged through her jacket pockets, yanking a pen out and a mostly empty notepad, throwing them to April, hard stare fixed on her friend.

"Yes…..I understand. Thank you." April's voice shook slightly as she grabbed at the pen and paper, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her ear. She began to scribble on the pad, still listening intently. "Thank you," she said again, more quietly. "You have no idea how much this means to me. Goodbye."

She reached up, pulling the phone away from her ear and hanging it up with a resounding _clunk, _face still pale..

"What?" Spike demanded.

"That," April said, voice steadier now. "Was Jeremy Dallas." She looked up, a calm look in her bright, blue eyes. "The Bystander. And we have a location." She turned the pad around, a triumphant set to her mouth. "The Purple Dragons are going to hit this scientific equipment company. Tonight. And we're going to be there."

* * *

Spike's gut twisted. She gripped the counter, grimacing. "Absolutely not," she rasped hoarsely. "You ain't goin' anywhere near the place."

"It's Technology Central. I have the address." April held the notepad up, pointedly ignoring her friend's protests. "I'm calling Burne. I need a camera crew out there tonight."

"It's a setup. Dallas's fixin' ta get ya blown away." Spike's chest tightened.

"You didn't hear him. He sounded scared."

"I bet. He probably had a Dragon gun in his face. He's busted an' so are we."

"We'll have to take that chance." April grabbed the telephone again, plugging in the numbers with the end of her pen. The color hadn't yet returned to her face, but the willful look was unmistakable.

Adrenaline was shooting through Spike's veins, faster than it ever had for any fight. Her heart pounded in her chest so hard it almost hurt. She swore. "April, don't you get it? You could be killed!"

April's head shot up. "You think I don't know that?"

"An' what, ya don't care?"

"That's not what I said." April waved her hand at her as she listened on the other end of the phone. "Irma! I need to talk to Thompson. I need a camera crew at Technology Central tonight at eleven. Yes, _eleven._ I can't help it, that's when the Dragons are robbing the place." She winced, holding the phone away from her ear as the secretary squawked. "I know! Just put me through to Burne!"

"That secretary's the only one with any sense in that whole joint," Spike growled.

April shot her a dirty look. "Burne? It's April. I need a camera team at…...Irma told you already? Well, can I have it?" She grimaced. "Vern?! Burne, you know how he is in these situations. Do you remember my last big story? The Empire State Building in '85? The killer taxis?" She paused, frowning. "Fine. I need them there by eleven. Just wait, Burne. I'll get you the story of the year!" She shot to her feet, a triumphant, wild gleam in her eye as she slammed the phone back on the receiver. She glanced up, pointedly avoiding Spike's steely glare. "I know what you're going to say."

Spike folded her arms across her chest. "An' ya ain't gonna listen ta any of it."

"No, I'm not." April turned, skirting the kitchen counter and heading for the tiny living room, grabbing her purse and slinging it over her shoulder.

"S' suicide, April." Spike followed. "Even if Dallas decided to fork over his info on his own, it's suicide, waitin' to watch a high-tech company like this get robbed. These guys ain't common thugs. They're Purple Dragons. They could have guns. They could take hostages, or worse. Then what?" Her jaw tightened as she swallowed. "You wouldn't be the first reporter they've blown away for stickin' their nose inta their business."

April blew out a heavy sigh, turning around slowly. "Spike. Do you remember the Stay Puft incident three years ago?"

"Kinda hard to forget."

April nodded. "I almost lost that story. Do you know why?"

Spike shoved her hands into her pockets, just barely repressing a scowl.

"You were being overprotective. Was it dangerous? Sure. But I got my story, and I got out of there, safely."

"Thanks ta me."

"Yes, thanks to you." April ran a hand through her hair, shaking her head. "I'm not saying I don't want your help. But we've been over this. A hundred times. Yes, this is probably the riskiest, stupidest, most suicidal thing I've ever done for a story, but I don't care. I need to do this." She swallowed. "And I need you to allow me to do what I have to."

"An' I need you to be careful," Spike retorted. "If anythin' happens to ya..."

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"How do you know?" Spike demanded, yanking her hands out of her pockets. "You can't promise that."

"I don't have to. You did." April cocked her head, studying Spike's blunt features with a gentle smile. "You'll be there to watch my back. You always are."

Spike met her gaze, and clenched her fists, nostrils flaring. She lowered her head slightly, the fringe of her mullet falling into her eyes. "Just be careful," she rumbled.

April pushed past her, moving into the kitchen and grabbing her coat off of the counter. "I don't need to be. That's your job, remember?"

She didn't turn back to see if Spike was following. She didn't have to.

* * *

Spike wished now more than ever that she owned a gun.

She paced up and down the length of the alley, footsteps landing as quietly as she could manage as she strode amongst the broken bottles, newspapers, and other assorted trash that littered the ground. Every nerve stood on alert, her pulse pounding at what felt like twice its normal speed. She ground her teeth. This was worse than a nightmare.

April sat behind a garbage dumpster, fiddling with her nails as Spike paced. She had agreed, reluctantly, to stay there until she was ready to film, in case something happened. Behind _her _was parked the large, white, Channel 6 van, hopelessly obvious against the dark walls of the scientific company.

Spike checked her watch.

_11:17_

"You know, O'Neil, I finally know why Thompson gave you this assignment," Vern Fenwick drawled. He leaned against the back of the news van, arms folded over his button-up shirt. "Nobody else would take it. You know they had a professional look the last two robberies over, and you know what he said?" He snorted. "Ninjas. You ever hear something so stupid in your life?"

"Exactly as stupid as the Stay Puft incident three years ago. Or the Empire State Building sinking underground the year after," April remarked. "Ninjas aren't the weirdest thing this city has seen." She turned towards Spike. "Anything yet?"

Spike glanced back at her from her position at the head of the alley, shaking her head.

Vern blew out a condescending sigh. "April, face it. Nothing's going to happen here. We may as well pack up our equipment and go."

April bolted to her feet, hands planted on her hips. "What are you, some kind of sissy? This is going to be fun!"

"April, we've got a million bucks of state-of-the-art equipment here." Vern waved an arm at the van. "I'm not gonna let it sit around in the street in the dead of the night!"

April threw her hands into the air. "You did this to me for my last two big scoops! I'm not letting you chicken out on me again!"

"If I'm not mistaken, a well-respected member of Mr. Thompson's news team was just brutally killed for _not _'chickening out'," Vern shot back. "We're the news media. Our reporting hurts the business of some of the underground bigshots, and therefore, everybody's out to hurt _us_." He jerked his thumb back at the van. "My crew is getting antsy. You said eleven sharp, O'Neil. I don't know about you and your guard dog there, but we're getting out of here before we get the trouble that _you're _asking for."

Spike glanced over her shoulder irritably, jaw clenched. "Shut. Up," she growled. She faced front again, shoving her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, frowning as her calloused fingers ran over the tape recorder April insisted she keep. She hastily pulled her hands back out, checking her watch once more.

_11:25_

"Anything yet?" April called.

Spike shook her head, starting to turn. "Nothin'."

As she spoke, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot split the air, and a body toppled into the alley at Spike's booted feet. April shot to her feet, a stunned expression on her face.

"Get down!" Spike barked. Her throat constricted as she stared at the outstretched hand, lying limp on the trash-strewn alley floor. An unmarked hand, unblemished but for the fresh blood stain. She turned the body over with her boot, peering into the terrified, stiff features of Jeremy Dallas.


	6. Trouble in the Sewers

April, to her credit, didn’t scream.

She gasped, staring in horror as she stared at the body of the Purple Dragon. She could vaguely hear Spike telling her to get down, but her feet were frozen, unable to tear her gaze away from Dallas’s death mask, or the blood spilling from the bullet wound in his chest.

Spike was standing over the body, turning towards her with an expression on her face that April had never seen before. If April hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn it was fear. Her ears were still ringing from the gunshot, heart pounding in her throat. Her lungs burned, and she realized, almost casually, that she was holding her breath. She felt disconnected, as though this was all happening to someone else. Oddly enough, she wished she had the camera. After all, that was why she was here.

Behind her, the sound of the Channel 6 news van roaring to life startled her out of inaction, and she struggled to spin around, almost as if she was standing in molasses. She watched in shock as Vern Fenwick peeled out, blazing out of the alley and onto the street as fast as the clunky vehicle could go.

She could hear Spike swearing at her shoulder, and she turned again, hands shaking, stomach twisting to face the front of the alley. She stiffened as her eyes landed on something moving in the darkness. Six figures, emerging into the dim light afforded by the streetlamps, all grinning wide. Four tall, two short, every one of them wearing the tattoo of the Purple Dragon on their forearms.

And all armed.

“April,” Spike’s voice was hoarse in her ear, face deathly pale and grim. “Get behind me.”

April didn’t see the need to argue, wordlessly sliding behind her taller friend, trembling hands shoving deep into the pockets of her jumpsuit, frantically searching for her tape recorder. 

The leader of the pack stepped forward, a small, vaguely apish blond in camouflage pants. He made a show of brandishing the gun he held in his right hand, simultaneously brandishing the mark of the Purple Dragon. In his other hand, he held a thick, wooden club. He continued to stalk towards them, a confident leer twisting his heavy features.

“Dickerson,” Spike growled.

The man chuckled humorlessly. “I ain’t here for you, Sanchez. That’s for another time. I’m here for yer friend, O’Neil there. Got a message for her from the big boss man. See, he thinks O’Neil really oughta stick to reportin’ on fashion shows.”

Spike shifted her weight, stiffening. She nodded, indicating the body of the dead man, lying between the Dragons and them. “I think we got your message just fine.”

“He don’t believe you.” Dickerson paused, glancing down at the corpse, shaking his head with mock sorrow. “Dallas always was yellow. Didn’t think the big leagues were for him. We were movin’ up in the world, an’ he wanted no part of it. When he called you up, well….we had no choice but to waste ‘im.” He shrugged, brandishing the gun again. “Thought it might be an extra bit of convincin’ for yer reporter friend too. Two birds with one bullet.” He slowly raised the gun, leveling it at Spike’s chest. “Get it?”

Spike swallowed, exhaling unsteadily. “Listen, Dickerson-”

“People who know better call me Rocksteady.”

Spike shifted her weight again, glancing over her shoulder meaningfully before facing front again. “Rocksteady. Ain’t no problem. I’ll talk to April an’ we’ll just leave ya be. Don’t want no trouble with the Dragons.”

April caught her look, already starting to move herself, taking slow steps backwards, glancing apprehensively at her friend, forcing her dinner to stay down.

“Too late. Ya already got it.” Rocksteady cocked the gun, an even wider grin spreading across his face. “Sign-off time.”

“ _ Go! _ ” Spike thundered.

April spun on her booted heel, pelting down the alley as fast as she could. Behind her, another gunshot rang out overtop the sudden clamor of shouting. Her stomach lurched. She fought the urge to turn back, to look to see if Spike was behind her, or lying in a crumpled heap on the alley floor, like Dallas.

  
Like Burch.

The thought of Spike, lying dead for her sake, almost caused her knees to buckle from underneath her. She fought the tears she could feel at the corners of her eyes, hoping, praying that Spike would be right behind her any minute.

She burst out of the alley, careening around a corner at top speed. It occurred to her that she had no idea where she was going, what she was  _ doing.  _ She had no plan. She had no backup. She was just running, blind panic overtaking her senses as adrenaline shot through her system, forcing her heart to beat faster, her lungs to burn for more oxygen. Her vision blurred as she glanced around, wildly searching for options, for someplace to run and hide.

She tripped on something, an uneven section in the street, and she pitched forward, hitting the sidewalk with a  _ thud.  _ She rolled over, grimacing at the scratches in her palms, as she searched for what she’d fallen over.

A manhole cover.

For an instant, she sat, staring at it before she scrambled to her hands and knees, crawling over to it and hooking her fingers around the edges, struggling to heave it up. She could hear heavy, running footsteps approaching, and she ducked her head, abandoning the manhole cover and flinching, already anticipating the sound of another gunshot-

Spike dropped to one knee beside her, breathing hard, face tight with an expression of pain. She reached down, grasping the sewer cover and yanking it up, a wild look in her eyes. Her pupils were blown, almost swallowing the cold grey of her eyes as she swiveled her head to look at April.

  
“You’re alive!” April choked with relief. She reached out for her friend, fingers brushing against a warm, sticky liquid smeared across Spike’s upper arm She started, recoiling as her eyes fell on the stream of blood that trickled from her friend’s shoulder. “You’re hurt!”

“Bullet grazed me. Get in,” she rasped, grimacing. “They can’t fire in the dark.” She glanced over her leather-clad shoulder, the remaining color in her face draining.

April turned as well, peering over her shoulder as Rocksteady and the five other Purple Dragons thundered out of the alley she had just emerged from. Behind Rocksteady, a taller thug with a mohawk pointed at them with his own, thinner club:

“There they are!” he bellowed. “Get ‘em!”

“Go!” Spike barked. “Now!”

“What about you?”

Spike shot to her feet, grabbing April by the shoulder and shoving her towards the manhole. “Go!”

April shut her eyes tight and held her breath as she took a step forward and jumped, feet first, into the hole in the ground. She hit the sewer floor with a  _ splash,  _ muck spraying into her face. She gagged, the stench so powerful she could almost taste it, made sharper by the December night air.

Beside her, Spike landed awkwardly, grunting as her boots struck the grime. She staggered slightly before standing upright, the dim patches of light from the surface barely illuminating her large form.

April reached out a steadying hand to her friend, holding her other arm over her nose and mouth. “Now what?”

“We run.” Spike craned her neck, glancing up at the manhole above. “They’re right behind us.” 

“Run where?!”

Spike jerked her head, bursting into a run as April scrambled to keep up, panting as she tried to keep pace with her friend’s longer strides.

“The sewer tunnels go all over the city. You get far enough along, there’ll be a chance to get out. Then you run for the cops.”

“Me? What about you?”

Behind them, multiple splashes and shouting signaled the arrival of their pursuers, voices echoing monstrously in the dark.

“I’ll lead ‘em away.” 

“What?!” April’s steps faltered. “You can’t! You’ll be killed!”

“You’re the one they want dead. They don’t care ‘bout me.” There was a sharper edge than usual in Spike’s voice, a tone April had never heard before, mixed with the suppressed pain from her wounded shoulder. “‘Sides, I can fight ‘em off better than you can.” 

April halted, reaching her hand out to fist in Spike’s leather sleeve. “Spike, no, no, no. You can’t do that. We have to stick together. I mean, this is great. We must really be onto something hot if they’re trying to kill us,” she said shakily.

_ “They can’t get far down here! Hunt ‘em down, boys! Boss wants O’Neil’s head!”  _

Spike tugged her arm away from April’s grasp. “You told me ya wanted my help. Listen to me.” Her voice was hoarse, unrecognizable.

April opened her mouth soundlessly, a lump rising in her throat.

“I’ll draw ‘em off.” Spike rumbled. “You go for help. Lay low. Stay safe.”

April took a step forward. “Wait-”

By the time she got the word out of her mouth, Spike had already turned on her booted heel, taking off into a branching tunnel. April froze, staring wildly into the darkness as the sounds of the Purple Dragons’ pursuit grew closer before forcing her legs to move. As silently as she could manage, she slunk back into the shadows, pressing her back against the sewer tunnel wall, and watched as the gang, led by Rocksteady, turned the corner, and followed after Spike.

* * *

Her shoulder burned.

Spike gritted her teeth, ignoring the agony spreading from the graze, and kept running, barreling through tunnel after tunnel, leading the pursuers on a fruitless chase. Soon, she’d turn around and make her stand, but not yet. She had to keep going.

She had to buy April as much time as possible. She had to keep going.

She could hear them behind her, crowing over their victory, over how their prey was at their mercy. The noise was meant for intimidation, to frighten their prey into not thinking straight. 

It might have worked, if Spike had been the type to be intimidated.

She veered into another branching sewer tunnel, skidding to a halt, sewer slime splashing around her ankles as she came face-to-face with a brick wall. She spun, hands clenching into fists as she slid into a defensive stance as the Dragons followed, piling one at a time into the opening of the dead end, effectively blocking any hope of escape.

Not that escape was part of the plan at this point.

Rocksteady halted first, standing in the cracks of light offered from the sewer grates above, grinning wide as he stepped forward, smacking his club into the palm of his hand. Slow, heavy movements.

“Sign-off time, April O’Neil,” he snarled, an ugly grin spreading across his face.

Spike’s lip quirked in an expression of amusement as she stepped forward herself, into the light, drawing herself up to her full size. Rocksteady’s heavy features froze, shifting from sadistic glee to confusion.

“Figured it’s ‘bout time for that rematch, huh, Dickerson?” Spike growled.

Rocksteady’s expression hardened, turning to rage. “Sanchez!”

For a moment, the two stared each other down, Spike’s eyes as hard as bullets as she stepped forward, one against six. Unarmed.

She took a deep breath, heart pounding out the familiar battle drum, raising her fists.

No words were spoken. No threats. No pleas. No demands.

Rocksteady raised his club in an arc, aiming the thick end for Spike’s jaw. Her hand snapped out, calloused fingers wrapping around it firmly as she threw her weight back, yanking it out of his hand. He jerked forward with the motion as Spike cracked her elbow across his nose, listening to the satisfying  _ crunch. _

As one, the Dragons were on top of her, chains, whips, clubs and knives. She turned, raising the club with a brazen expression on her face, eyes blazing, chin lifted. The club came down on Rocksteady’s mohawked partner’s head with a  _ crack _ . He staggered, regaining his balance as a chain wrapped its way around her leg, weight dragging it out to the side.

A fist collided with her iron jaw. Someone’s knee jabbed into her ribs, forcing her air out. The pressure tugging on her leg re-doubled, and she went down to her knees. Spike raised her club in defense against the downward slash of a blade, the metal stabbing into the wood instead of her face. The whole time, her shoulder burned, aching as she forced it to move, forced herself to keep moving.

_ For April’s sake, she had to keep fighting. _

Her mind blurred, barely registering when her club splintered under the blow of another weapon. She hardly noticed the blood on her knuckles, her own or someone else’s, she was no longer certain. She could taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth, could feel it streaming down her face, could see it flowing from the wounds she was opening on her assailants. She struggled to her feet, yanking the chain away from its wielder, backing into the wall as she kept them off as best as she could. Kept buying time. Kept hoping April was far away, safe. She had to be safe.

Even as they brought her down, six against one, she fought on the ground, in the sewage, kicking with her heavy boots, throwing punches, elbows. Even as the darkness closed in like a curtain over her eyes, as she lost her first fight, one comforting thought remained with her, the last thing she thought before she stopped thinking altogether:

_ April O’Neil was safe. _

And after all, that was all that mattered.


	7. Terror in the Tunnels

April O’Neil pressed a hand to the stitch in her side, sucking air into her burning lungs. She pelted down the tunnel, all her senses bent on finding a way out. Her mind raced, trying to remember where the ladder she’d used to enter this underground maze was.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Terror clawed its way up her throat, tightening her chest, twisting her stomach. 

It was impossible to get her bearings down here, in this underground maze. She couldn’t remember how far she’d run, if she'd overshot the exit or not gone far enough. Desperation swept over her like a wave, and her steps faltered.

No one would look for her in the sewers. She would be lost down here, a testament to the fate of reporters who stuck their noses into Purple Dragon affairs. A chill ran down April's spine at the thought, turning her blood cold.

Panic pushed her burning legs to move faster, bursting into a blind run. She had to get out, had to get help. Her eyes strained in the dark, searching for the place she’d entered this nightmare-

Her shoulder clipped something solid, knocking her off balance. 

Air gusted out of her lungs as she stumbled, her heart leaping into her throat as she fell to her hands and knees. She cried out, scrambling to get to her feet, boots slipping in the sludge. She craned her neck, trying to find what she'd collided with.

The figure stood in the deep shadows by the tunnel walls, as tall as April's shoulders. It moved slowly, as though trying to not startle her, taking a step forward as it spoke.

"Are you alright?" His voice was full of curiosity and concern, a young voice that echoed off of 

the sewer walls.

Whoever this was, it wasn't a Purple Dragon.

April took a deep breath, pressing a manicured hand to her chest as she swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm fine,” she said, more to herself than the shadow. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm her heartbeat. "I'm fine," she repeated.

“Here, I'll help you up. Take my hand.”

“Thanks.” April reached up, grasping for the offered limb. She froze as soon as her fingers touched it.

The hand was cool to the touch and scaly, it’s three large, strong fingers wrapping easily around her smaller ones. April stared at it, beginning to shake again as another observation sunk in: the skin, contrasting greatly against her own, was a deep shade of green.

“What are you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling slightly as she recoiled.

The hand released hers abruptly, and the figure drew back, mirroring April’s movements. “My name is Donatello.” The voice had an edge to it now, guarded, defensive.

April struggled to her feet, hands sliding on the stone wall beside her as she faced the creature. 

“What are you?” she said again, louder this time, heartbeat racing with fear for the second time that night. 

“Please don't panic. I won't hurt you.” The figure stepped forward as he spoke and immediately realized his mistake. His large eyes widened over his beak-ish snout, and he leaped back, too late.

She’d seen enough.

“You're not human.” Her stomach lurched as she stared in incomprehension at the hard shell covering the back of the creature.

“Please, don't scream,” he said, his voice quieter.

“You…..you can’t be….you're a….a turtle?!” 

“Yes. I am.” It was a matter-of-fact statement. “A red-eared slider, to be exact.”

“I...” April swallowed, mind and heart racing. “I can't....I can't handle this.” She staggered, putting a hand to her aching temple. The events of the evening were crashing in on her; from being hunted down to this sewer creature. Confusion and fear swirled together in an overwhelming combination that made her head throb. She staggered, putting an arm out for balance.

“Are you alright?” The reptile was at her side in an instant, faster than April would have believed possible. He raised a steadying hand to her, almost touching her shoulder.

She jerked away, mouth dropping open to let out a scream before a burst of pain in her skull distracted her from the creature. The back of her head cracked off the stone tunnel wall behind her, cutting her cry short as she pitched forward. The creature lunged forward, reaching for her as she slumped into his scaly arms, head swimming and vision blurring.

He lowered her to the cold, mucky ground, kneeling beside her and reaching for her face. 

Somewhere in April’s rapidly fading consciousness, she recognized the expression in the strange, reptilian face as concern.

Her last conscious thought was that perhaps, when she woke up, the night might have turned out to be a nightmare.

* * *

The first thing Spike knew for sure was that her nose was broken.

She sucked in a labored breath as she came to, grimacing at the taste of blood on her dry tongue. Her lip, which had just begun to heal from the fight, had split open again, burning worse than before. Her head pounded and her swollen eyes ached as she forced them open, wincing as bright light assaulted her blurry vision.

She was slumped between two figures, an arm around either figure, boots dragging the reflecting metallic floor. She shook her head slightly, sweat and blood-crusted hair hanging in her eyes as she tried to focus her vision.

The walls alongside were featureless, chrome, brilliantly lit, just like the floor and ceiling. The room was featureless, but for two objects. One, a high backed metal chair, almost a throne, sat upon a dais at the far end of the room, with its back to them. Behind the ‘throne’ stood an enormous computer monitor, connected to large control panels full of buttons that blinked, beeped and whirred quietly.

_ “You incompetent imbeciles!”  _

A pair of heavy metal boots stalked towards her, joined by a booming, irate voice that reverberated off the metal walls. 

“Are you blind as well as stupid?!”

The grip on her arms relaxed, and Spike dropped to the floor, grunting at the impact. Beside her, the two Purple Dragons staggered back a few steps.

“Master Shredder, we knew t'wasn't O'Neil.” The thug who had led the chase in the sewers sounded apologetic. “She got away. But this one-“ He kicked carelessly at her bruised side, and the movement seemed to inspire some confidence in him. “Was with her afore we lost 'er in the sewer. Figure she'll lead us right to her, see?”

The boots stopped their movement. “Yes.....that may very well be true. You haven't done as badly as you could have, Rocksteady. Wake her.”

A meaty hand grabbed the roots of her short hair, yanking her face, caked with dried blood and sewer muck, upwards. Spike's aching muscles fired to life as her own huge arm came up, swinging her elbow back into Rocksteady's knee, who immediately let go of her hair, howling in pain as he staggered back.

“Pathetic. The Purple Dragons, the most fearsome gang in New York City, and it took six of you to wrangle this one.”

Rocksteady slumped his shoulders sullenly. “I’ve fought her before. She's strong, Master Shredder.” he muttered. “She jus’ kept fightin’.”

“Perhaps it is less about her strength and more about your own weakness.” The booted figure turned back to face their captive, voice lowering from a shout to a calmer, more reasonable tone. “Now….as for what to do with this one.”

Spike pushed herself to her knees, craning her sore neck as she looked up, straining to see through her swollen eyes.

He was an imposing figure, clad in a metal helmet and mask that obscured all but his dark, intense eyes. Metal armor covered his chest and shoulders, and a cape billowed behind him. He looked out of place in this high-tech room, yet seemed perfectly at ease in his position. He leaned down, dark eyes narrowing as he bent, not quite to her level, but a little above it.

“You know April O'Neil. You will tell me where she is.”

Spike grimaced, split lip stretching painfully as she shook her head.

Rocksteady’s boot slammed into her gut, forcing the air out of her lungs in a  _ woosh _ . Her shaky legs gave out, her head swam, and she sprawled back onto the floor with a grunt.

“You will tell me where April O'Neil is,” the metal-clad figure said impatiently. “Do you understand me?”

“Master Shredder,” Rocksteady interjected. “Give her to us.” He glanced eagerly down at Spike's large frame, grinning widely. “We can get it outta her.”

“About as competently as you retrieved the reporter herself for me, I'd wager. No, Rocksteady, I have different plans for you.”

Rocksteady backed away, seemingly subdued.

The man turned away from him, dark eyes boring into Spike's. “I will ask one more time. Where is April O'Neil?”

“Safe,” Spike rasped hoarsely. She raised her head, glaring, the dried blood on her face cracking. “S'all that matters.”

He maintained his gaze. “We shall see. You would do well to not underestimate your enemies. I am certain that you have found the Purple Dragons easy enough to overpower, but you will find that the Foot Clan are considerably more formidable. You will learn to not scoff so easily at the might of the Shredder.” He straightened, drawing himself up to his full more impressive, height.. “I will find out where O'Neil is, rest assured. It is only a matter of time before I extract the information out of you. The Foot Clan is skilled in such matters.” The Shredder turned away, striding towards the end of the room. “Bebop. Rocksteady. Take her to a cell and report back here immediately.”

The pair of Purple Dragons stepped forward, reaching out to grab Spike's arms roughly. She pushed herself to her feet, muscles and joints protesting, and shook them off. She was too weak to fight her way out, but she wasn't too weak to leave on her feet.

Rocksteady grabbed her arm and shoved, keeping one hand on her shoulder as he began to march her from the room. He leaned up to speak into her ear, a savage grin twisting his face. “You ain' safe from us, Sanchez. No matter what Shredder's got in store for ya, the Purple Dragons want their cut too. We’re even now. One win, one loss. You won’t win again.”

Spike raised her chin, staring at the end of the long, narrow hallway. She bared her teeth in a slight parody of a grin, snorting heavily through her broken nose. “Don't matter what you do to me.”

Rocksteady gripped harder. “When we're finished with you, you'll hand over O'Neil, alright. An' then we'll deal with her, too. The Purple Dragons don't like reporters, Sanchez. 'Specially ones who poke their noses in Dragon territory.”

“Both of you, quiet,” Bebop growled. A door branching off from the hall slid open, revealing a tiny, square, featureless cubicle. He gestured at the room. “You. Get in there.”

Rocksteady shoved hard at her back, jerking his booted foot into the back of her knee. Spike stumbled forward, spinning unsteadily just as the door slid closed behind her, obscuring the wicked sneers on the Purple Dragons' faces. She gingerly sat with her broad back to the far wall, aching eyes on the door.

Her head lolled back as the adrenaline began to fade. Exhaustion took hold, first in her swollen eyes and muscles, and then her mind. 

April was safe, and Spike didn't know where. They wouldn't get a location out of Spike no matter what they did. A hint of a genuine smile tugged at her thin lips. Whether she escaped or died in this featureless, metal prison, at least she'd done what she'd been prepared to do.

Her consciousness began to drift as she held onto that comforting thought, eyes closing as she slipped into darkness.


	8. Taken In

April O’Neil woke up with the scent of the sewer in her nose and a throbbing sensation in her skull, immediately discounting the wishful thought that, perhaps, this whole thing had been a nightmare. She paused, eyes still closed, trying to remember  _ what  _ exactly had been a nightmare. She remembered running in the dark, slogging through sewer muck and worrying, worrying about-

_ Spike! _

April sat bolt upright, wide blue eyes flying open. Immediately, light stabbed at her sensitive eyes, forcing them closed as she threw an arm up in front of them for protection, grimacing. The pain in her head increased, a stab of pain reminiscent of the moment her skull had come in contact with the brick sewer wall.

Her gut twisted and churned as she forced her eyes to open, stuffing down a feeling of nausea. Spike. Gunfire. Leading them away, leading the most dangerous gang in New York City away,  _ after her….. _

She realized she was resting upon a mattress of some kind, tucked in the corner of a small, brightly lit room that seemed familiar in structure. Posters covered the rounded brick walls. A stack of books sat in a neat pile next to another bed, and on top of another mattress, a boombox rested. A television was carefully set in another corner of the room, alongside a stack of discarded pizza boxes. A wooden staff leaned against the wall, and model ships hung from the arched roof.

With a start, April realized that she was still inside the sewer.

The question was…. _ where  _ inside the sewer?

April folded her arms over her chest, shivering slightly as the urge to throw up took stronger hold. Her head pounded like a jackhammer, making thoughts hard to focus on.

She had no idea where she was. Worse, she had no idea how far she was from Spike, or where Spike was.

Or if she was still alive.

_ Calm down,  _ she told herself.  _ This is a lived-in space. Someone brought you here, someone who means no harm. _

“Where am I?” she spoke aloud, softer than she would have liked. She cleared her throat, shaking her head and trying again. “Excuse me? Where am I?” She slowly rose to her feet, rubbing feeling into her chilled upper arms. “Hello?”

“Some hot tea?”

The voice was calm, comforting, coming from the doorway, which April had, until now, not noticed. She spun as quickly as she dared, turning to face the speaker with relief, until she laid eyes upon the owner of the voice.

It was, quite plainly, a giant, furry, long-tailed, bipedal rat.

Dressed in a robe and holding a teacup between his paws, the rat cocked his head, giving the impression that he was sizing April up. One rounded ear twitched, and his nose followed suit, drawing April’s attention to his whiskers.

April sat back down on the bed immediately, gasping for breath. “I….don’t believe this,” she wheezed.

The rat took another step forward, holding out the steaming cup. April recoiled as her gaze journeyed from his paws to his face, halting as she made eye-contact with the giant rodent.

The eyes were human. Gentle, full of compassion and concern. They were old eyes. Wise eyes. Eyes that belonged to someone who had seen a lot of life. Somehow, the steady gaze seemed to steady her nerves, holding her still long enough for the rodent to place the cup into her palm. 

“Calm yourself,” the rodent said gently. “You are safe.”

April nodded mutely, heart now hammering at a tempo to match her head. Her cold, stiff fingers reflexively closed around the warm cup, restoring some feeling into them.

“Is she awake?”

She recognized this voice immediately as the one from the tunnels, right before she’d been knocked unconscious. She glanced at the doorway, taking in the sight of the short, reptilian figure that she’d met earlier. The turtle returned her look, taking a step forward.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

She forced herself to smile slightly, nodding again.

“Donatello brought you to us after your unfortunate injury,” the rat said.

“You bumped your head pretty badly. You had a mild concussion,” Donatello said.

April’s stomach twisted again and she let go of the cup with one hand, raising the other to her mouth to fight another wave of nausea.  _ A concussion. _

Spike had come home with those after some bad fights. April remembered the bouts of vomiting, the dizziness, the fatigue, quite well. She raised a hand to her head, rubbing at a throbbing temple.

“It’s tough tryin’ to carry on a conversation with ya, y’know?” This was a new voice, a brasher, louder one, also emanating from the increasingly crowded doorway. Standing there was another bipedal turtle, almost identical to Donatello. This one wore a red bandanna around his head, and on his belt, the initial  _ R. _

“Perhaps some food would aid the young lady’s powers of speech,” the rat remarked thoughtfully. He glanced meaningfully towards Donatello, who nodded, turning and ducking back through the doorway. He returned almost instantly with a plate full of sushi, approaching the bed where April sat. He thrust the tray at her, and April hesitantly reached for it, realizing with a start how hungry she was.

She wondered how long she’d been unconscious, and raised the cup of tea to her lips, wetting her parched tongue. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

Donatello’s beak curved upward in an expression that might have been a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Pizza time!” A green blur, the same size and shape as the other two turtles, shot into the room, balancing a pizza tray on each hand and one on his head, moving impossibly fast. This one wore an orange bandanna around his head, with the initial  _ M  _ on his belt. He skidded to a halt, sliding the pizza trays effortlessly onto the small, wooden table in the center of the room. “Pepperoni and ice cream, jellybean and mushroom, an’ my favorite, anchovies and peanut butter.”

April looked at the piece of sushi in her hand and grimaced as her appetite plummeted. She reached forward, placing it back on the tray. The other two turtles gathered around the table, each picking up a slice. Donatello turned back to look at her.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. He held up a slice of pizza. “Would you like a slice?”

“No thanks.” She nodded at the slice, wrinkling her nose. “How can you  _ eat  _ that junk?”

“How can you eat raw fish?” he countered, wrinkling his beak back.

“Hold it, guys.” A fourth turtle stepped through the doorway, folding his arms. At his arrival, the other two turtles stopped eating, glancing up for a moment. This turtle wore a blue bandanna and the initial  _ L, _ and carried himself with an air of authority. His voice was calm, mature, and he looked at April with eyes that seemed almost a younger version of the rat’s. “What were you doing in the sewers?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. We don’t get many humans down here.” The turtle who had brought the pizzas in leaned forward, cupping his chin in his 

April’s fingers tightened around the cup. “I…” she cleared her throat. “I was running away. There were men chasing me…..us,” she choked.

“Who was chasing you? And why?”

“I’m...I’m April O’Neil. A reporter.” April stood up shakily, tugging at her grimy jumpsuit. “For Channel 6. I was doing a story on some thefts at scientific equipment companies…” she raised a hand to her head as her vision swam for an instant. “There was a gang. The Purple Dragons. They’ve already killed one reporter….they chased us into the sewer-”

“Us?” Donatello interrupted. “There’s another human down here?”

April bit her lip as hot tears sprang to her eyes. “I….I don’t know. We were seperated…..she drew them off.” She staggered, leaning against the wall.

Donatello took a hesitant step forward. “I’m sure your friend is alright, wherever she is.”

“Or hopelessly lost down here,” the red-masked turtle shrugged.

Donatello shot him a glare. “Perhaps we’ll find her. Don’t be such a pessimist, Raphael.”

The blue-masked turtle ignored them. “Then what happened?” he asked gently.

“I was trying to find a way out, and I ran into…..” April gestured. “A giant talking turtle. How is that even possible? Who  _ are  _ you guys?”

“Perhaps I can best explain,” the rat interrupted, stepping forward. “The story of my young friends and I, is really a story about a man named  _ Hamato Yoshi.  _ In Japan, there is a ninja clan known as  _ The Foot.  _ Yoshi was their teacher, a quiet man, well versed in the ways of enlightenment. One of his students sought to usurp his leadership, a man by the name of Oruku Saki. One day, when a master teacher visited the Foot school, Oruku made his move, framing Hamato of an attempt on the master’s life. Disgraced, Hamato Yoshi was cast out of the Foot Clan. He fled to America, and was forced to live in the sewers. Without his leadership, under Orkuku Saki, the Foot became dangerous, a criminal army.” The rat shook his head sadly, sighing. “In America, the rats were Yoshi’s only friends, until one day, some new friends dropped in. Four small turtles, quite normal. Yoshi took them in and cared for them for quite some time, until one day, he discovered the four, covered in a strange, glowing liquid. It was a powerful mutagen, a property that caused the DNA of whoever touched it to merge with the cells of whatever it had last been in contact with. For the turtles, it was Yoshi. Thus, their transformation, as you can see, caused them to become more human.”

The rat paused. “Yoshi had last been in contact with the rats,” he said quietly.

April’s eyes widened. “Then you’re Hamato Yoshi,” she breathed.

“You’ve got a mind like a steel trap, lady,” Raphael drawled sarcastically.

The rat nodded. “I  _ was  _ Hamato Yoshi. Now, I am known as Splinter. I knew that the turtles would be outcasts, freaks to the outside world, so I raised them as best I could and trained them in the ancient art of Ninjitzu.” He smiled affectionately. “And named them after my favorite artists.” He gestured. “You’ve met Donatello, wielder of a simple wooden staff that can disarm any enemy. And Raphael, who’s sais can withstand the assault of any sword on earth.”

“Even Leonardo’s,” Raphael quipped smugly.

Splinter shot him a warning look and indicated the blue-masked turtle. “Leonardo, who’s swordsmanship is unmatched. And Michelangelo, master of the whirling nunchackus.”

“And master of the whirling pizzas,” the orange-masked turtle added.

April set the cup of tea down on the floor, stepping closer. Her initial fear had died down, replaced with the reporter’s instincts and desire to know more. There was a story here. “Do you know who created the mutagen, or who dropped it on you?” she asked.

Leonardo reached back, drawing a sword from its sheath and brandishing it. “No. But one day, we’ll find whoever did it, and force him to make our master human once more,” he said solemnly.

April’s eyes fell on the blade and she froze, mind working frantically. Her gaze shifted, scanning the room. The staff…..the nunchucks…..the sais…..

_ Sais. _

Her eyes widened as she took in the triple-pronged weapons at Raphael’s belt, a sense of dread raising a lump in her throat as her mind worked.

_ Morgan Burch was found in the doorway to his apartment with a blunted metal prong embedded in his skull….. _

She felt her dinner churning in her stomach. 

_ They did it. They killed Burch. _

She instinctively reached for her small tape-recorder, subtly checking her pockets for it with increasing urgency.

It wasn’t there. It wasn’t  _ anywhere. _

April froze, panic rising as she glanced around. The spacious interior of the sewer seemed closed in, claustrophobic. The turtles and their master stared at her with interest as she fought the urge to throw up.

“So, what do you think?” Michelangelo asked, leaning forward with interest.

“I think…” April cleared her throat. “I think I have to go!” She turned on her heel and bolted for the doorway, snatching a spare sai off of the wall.

“Stop her!” 

There was a flash of green overhead, and a second later, Donatello landed in front of her, holding his staff, blocking the doorway. “Wait a minute!” He reached out, for the hand holding the sai. “Where do you think you’re going with that?”

April’s hands were shaking almost as much as her voice as she burst out: “A weapon just like this was found buried in the skull of another reporter,” she said. “This is evidence!”

Donatello looked baffled. “Evidence? It wasn’t  _ us _ !”

“Of course you’d say that! Why don’t you tell me about that new partnership you have with the Purple Dragons! Why don’t you tell me what Burch found out that was so dangerous as to get him  _ murdered?! _ ” She took a step forward, voice growing in volume, even as it trembled, shaking the sai in his face. “Tell me what you’ll do to my  _ friend _ !”

“Woah, woah!” Donatello held his hands out in front of him. “Whoever did this  _ may  _ have been a ninja, but  _ not  _ a turtle! We take our honor very seriously!”

“Donatello is right.” Leonardo frowned. “Whoever did these things was not one of us.”

“If we were really crooks, we would have just run you through by now,” Raphael pointed out, leaning against a wall. “You’re alone, unarmed, and surrounded.” He shrugged. “If we were bad guys, you’d be history.”

“If you  _ didn’t,  _ that means there’s another group running around New York City with those kinds of weapons, murdering reporters, committing thefts, and  _ hunting down my friend! _ ” April threw the weapon down on the ground. “I have to go!”

“Wait! We can’t let you leave!” Donatello cried, holding up his staff again. He turned to his brothers. “She’ll put us on the news! Every scientist in town will be after us!”

Raphael pushed off of the wall, folding his arms. “We spent half our lives crawling around the bottom of a glass bowl, and we ain’t goin’ back!”

“Which means you have to stay here!” Donatello said firmly.

“I can’t stay!” April protested. “I have a friend in danger out there! Do you understand me? She was being  _ chased  _ by a  _ gang! _ They had  _ guns! _ ” She waved her arms. “You have to let me go! I need to find her, and stop these….these other thieves before they hurt anyone else!”

“We can’t let you go. You’d tell the world about us!”

Leonardo stepped forward. “Look. Why don’t we just find her friend for her? Then she can get out of the sewers, and get her story, leaving  _ us  _ out of it. In return, you will help us find the person responsible for our mutation. Does that sound like a fair deal, Ms. O’Neil?”

For an instant, April paused. The temptation of a story about mutant turtles was too good to pass up. This story, on top of the Purple Dragon one, would be enough to cement her in history as a great reporter. It might even get her a Pulitzer. For a split second, she imagined the look on Burne Thompson’s face as she brought him these stories on a silver platter.

But if she didn’t agree……

Spike could be dead already.

“Alright,” April said reluctantly. “It’s a deal.” She offered her slim, manicured hand out to shake as Leonardo clasped it in his own, three-fingered, scaly one.

“That’s that, then.” Donatello lowered his staff in the doorway.

  
Raphael pushed off of the wall, crossing past April and disappearing through the opening. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he called over his shelled shoulder. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Cold metal pinned her hands to her sides, her chest, hips and legs to the frigid slab underneath her. She tried to dig her booted heels in, tried to tear free, to no avail. Her eyes were squinted, blocking out the blinding light above her as she struggled to escape from her bonds, muscles bulging with the effort.

This is how she’d awoken: trapped, but healed.

Her broken nose had been set, her bullet-graze tended to. Her leather jacket was gone, but fresh gauze and bandages had been applied to her more severe wounds.

Frankly, she would have rathered the torture than this surprisingly benign gesture.

The metal froze her bare shoulders and arms, pressed in on her belt buckle in her jeans, while she balled her hands into fists and tried, once more, to break free.

She was in a different sort of room now. This was nothing like her cell.

It was bigger, more open,  _ whiter, _ somehow. Brighter. Besides the raised platform she was strapped to, there were multiple tables with a series of instruments on them, and further still was an empty slab like the one she was on. It was a surgery room.

_ Or a morgue. _

She opened her eyes wider, craning her neck. Behind her was a single chair, over which was draped her beat-up leather jacket.

And upon which was seated the Shredder.

Spike’s lips twisted into a snarl. “What do you want?” she rasped hoarsely.

He sat on the chair as though it were a throne, his expression unreadable from behind the mask. His intense gaze was fixed on her, almost like he was studying her. He said nothing.

She bucked against the restraints again, thick eyebrows knitting together. “F’ yer gonna torture me, jus’ get on w’th it,” she growled.

A low chuckle emanated from behind the faceplate of the Shredder’s helmet. “You needn’t worry about torture. We have other methods to get the information we want. Such as your name.”

Spike shut her mouth, teeth clacking shut.

The Shredder stood, slowly, making his way to her slab. His heavy boots clacked against the floor, a metallic, weighty sound that halted as he paused at her side.

“Saundra Andrea Sanchez.” It was only a name. Not  _ her  _ name, not anymore, but it was enough to jolt her. She started, frown deepening, if it were possible.

“M’ name’s Spike.”

“Certainly. We all have reasons to change our names. But the information lended by your DNA sample was clear. You were born Saundra Andrea Sanchez, orphaned at age seven and taken in by the O’Neil family. Your blood type is A-positive. You are twenty seven and unmarried. Unfortunately, that is where the information lended by the good city of New York ends. You have managed to stay off the grid, Ms. Sanchez.” The Shredder paused, looking down at her from beside the raised slab. “But perhaps you could fill in some more information.”

“My name,” Spike repeated. “Is Spike Sanchez. An’ that’s all I’m gonna tell you.” She raised her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze with her own.

For a moment, there was silence between them.

“Perhaps this will help.” The Shredder reached up, taking hold of his helmet, pulling it off his head in one smooth motion, removing the face plate as he did so.

He had strong, chiseled features, an iron jaw, and thick eyebrows. His hair was dark, darker than his eyes, which didn’t seem half as severe without the mask. His face was unmarred, unscarred, could almost be considered handsome.

“My name is Oruku Saki. A name for a name. Now, if you let me explain, perhaps you will be more willing to share information.”

“Why did you bother fixin’ me up?”

“You are no good to me damaged. Consider it a token of my good will.”

“Why ‘m I still strapped down?”

“To prevent your escape.”

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I don’t even know where I am.”

The Shredder paused. “Very well. I will release you. Understand that if you try to escape, you will regret it.”

Spike didn’t reply.

The Shredder crossed to the far side of the room, out of Spike’s line of vision. An instant later, the metal bands around her body loosened, then retracted. She sat up, raising her hands to rub warmth back into her shoulders. As she did so, the door on the far side of the room slid open, and two figures entered, springing to either side of her faster than she could react.

The figures were covered from head to toe, black armor over their purple uniforms. A purple mask covered their heads, a red footprint over each forehead. They reached out, the same movement, the same tempo, and fastened unbreakable grips around Spike’s forearms, yanking her hands to her sides.

Spike swore, twisting herself as best she could in her seated position in an effort to tear away. “What is this?” she barked.

“These,” the Shredder said camly, turning away from the control panel on the far side of the room. “Are my Foot soldiers. Members of an ancient, honorable Japanese clan. I am their leader.”

“If you’re Japanese, what’re you doin’ here?”

“We are here to prevent a war.” The Shredder stepped closer. “Many years ago, I led a revolution against an old fool, the last master of the Foot Clan. He believed that tradition, the  _ old ways,  _ were the  _ pure  _ ways. He hated change,  _ progress.  _ He talked about the ancient days of the glory of the ninja, but refused to take the steps necessary for us to have that glory again.” He was still moving slowly, each footstep echoing around the chrome chamber. “His name was Hamato Yoshi. I knew that the only way for us to regain our lost status was to move forward, to seize the technology available to us and grow stronger.  _ This  _ was the new way of the ninja.”

He shook his head. “Hamato Yoshi would not listen to me. So I gathered other like-minded students, and overthrew him, banishing him from the Clan. He fled to America, but in his wake, he left seeds of dissention. Members of the Foot who believe in Yoshi’s teachings.  _ Spies  _ of his. His ultimate goal is to weaken us, attack us from the inside, and take his position by force. I took those of our number who were loyal and came to New York to stop him before he tears our clan in two.”

He paused. “He is the reason I have reluctantly joined forces with the gangs of this city. It is because of him that I have ordered them to steal this equipment, so that I can use this technology to find him and stop him before he causes a civil war that would cost the lives of hundreds.”

“‘F you’re so honorable, then why’d ya whack Morgan Burch?”

“A regrettable miscommunication. I told the Purple Dragons to take care of him, meaning a bribe, or perhaps an explanation, but their methods are too crude, too blunt. They have no understanding of the delicacy of the situation. They merely understand that I am to pay them.”

“An’ I suppose Dallas was a miscommunication too.”

“Regrettably.”

“Why’d ya send ‘em after April?”

“Your friend is too close. My intentions were to deter her, prevent her from ending as unfortunately as Morgan Burch had. I sent the Purple Dragons to bring her here, scare her into coming quietly so I could explain to her, as I have to you, and to ask for her silence while I prevent this civil war.”

“If your intentions’re so good, why’re you keepin’ me here?”

“For your own safety. And ours. You put up quite a fight against the Purple Dragons. It was….impressive. Alone and unarmed, you were quite formidable.”

“S’ not what I heard you say when they brought me inta this place.” Spike shifted, her shoulders aching from being held up, squinting through her sore eyes.

“I was angered at the lack of success these Dragons seem to have. They are useless tools in this city, a hindrance rather than a help. Their methods are clumsy, they lack the precision and understanding of a ninja, a warrior. But as for you….” He folded his arms, looking her up and down appraisingly.

Spike’s lip twisted.

“You are of few words. Your actions, your figure, your  _ conduct,  _ speak volumes. The mark of a warrior.” He nodded approvingly. “Foot soldiers. Leave us.”

Abruptly, in total sync, the figures bracketing Spike let go, leaving imprints on her arms as they backed away, turning and moving towards an empty wall in perfect step. The white wall before them opened up as they approached, allowing them to move through it into the hallwathan she, of solid build. His movements were full of restrained power, of speed. He was the leader of a ninja clan, undoubtedly skilled in combat.

Spike pushed herself off of the raised platform, to a standing position, legs shaky from disuse as she rubbed feeling back into her upper arms. Goosebumps raised on her bare arms as she faced the Shredder, chin raising, meeting him eye-to-eye. He was perhaps two inches taller, an impressive figure.

She stifled a grimace as she rolled her shoulders. If she tried to escape now, he’d be more than a match to stop her. It wouldn’t do her, or April, any good if she tried now.

“You have what the Purple Dragons lack.” The Shredder’s voice was almost conversational as he studied her. “An understanding of battle. Loyalty. Ferocity. Discipline. I see these in you. You have great strength.”

“So?”

“Where did you learn this?”

Spike turned her back, slowly making her way around the raised slab, heading for the chair her leather jacket was draped on. She shrugged half-heartedly as she reached her arm out, grabbing the battered jacket and slinging it over her shoulder. “Does it matter?”

“It matters considerably to those in the Purple Dragon clan.” The Shredder watched as Spike slowly tugged the jacket on, grimacing at the leftover ache in her muscles. “You are not from a rival gang.”

“How’d ya guess?”

“You do not have the bearing of one who brawls in a mob.”

“‘M not a cheap thug, ya mean.” Spike folded her arms across her chest, glaring up through the fringe of hair dangling just above her eyes.

The hint of a smirk played at the corners of the Shredder’s lips. “Yes.”

Spike didn’t smile back. “I don’t know where April is.”

Oruku Saki’s expression didn’t falter. “That may well be. I do not keep you here for the single purpose of finding your friend.”

Spike shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. As she did so, her right fingers brushed against something solid, something cool, but worn. Metallic. She stifled the urge to frown with confusion, focusing on keeping her face impassive as she ran her fingers over the device. Buttons, a smooth frame….

_ April’s tape recorder. _

“What other reasons ya got?” Spike asked carefully. She pressed a few buttons, struggling to find one that would open the case, feeling for the tape inside.

After all that had happened, the tape recorder still worked.

In theory.

“All in good time. For as much as I have told you, you have told me very little.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to tell.”

Maybe there was a way for April to get her story. If she could get to the Purple Dragons, she could record the evidence. Get April her story and escape.

As pure as the Shredder claimed his intentions were, something felt wrong. He was hiding something. Even if he wasn’t, it was still a story. Wherever April was, she’d find her and take it to Channel 6. April would have her career resurrection, and the danger would be over.

If she could get out of here.

She had to play her cards right. Play  _ smart. _

Thinking her way out had never been Spike’s strong suit.

“Perhaps you shall feel differently soon enough.”

Spike’s gaze snapped back up to the Shredder’s, glaring daggers as he chuckled. 

“Rest assured, I have no intentions of using torture. But I will return to learn more from you.”

She frowned. “Ain’t ya gonna cart me back to my cell?”

“You are not my enemy. I have no quarrel with you. Far from it. No, you are free to wander everywhere that my fortress will  _ let  _ you.” The Shredder picked up his helmet, sliding it back on and obscuring his features once more. “Use this privilege wisely.”

He turned, helmet in place, cape billowing behind him, and strode powerfully from the room, leaving Spike alone with her newfound freedom.


	9. The Surface

April wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly as she followed at Donatello’s heels, slogging through the sewer. The December air seemed worse down here, coupled with the stench, but the turtles seemed to notice neither. Leonardo followed her silently, with Michelangelo chattering behind him. Raphael brought up the rear, quiet but for the occasional sarcastic comment.

Her ears strained for any sign of Spike, even though she knew that it had been hours since they’d separated. The odds of she, or the Purple Dragons, still being in the sewers were slim at best. They’d probably found her and taken her somewhere.

Or worse.

Still, that didn’t stop April from expecting Spike’s familiar form at her back , her low rumbling voice. Despite being surrounded by these new allies, she felt terribly alone.

Abruptly, Donatello halted, causing April to nearly run into the back of his shell. 

“This is where I found you,” he said, voice reverberating off of the tunnel walls. “Can you retrace your steps to find where you lost your friend?”

April peered around, shivering again before shaking her head. “These tunnels all look alike to me,” she confessed. “Besides, she’s probably gone already.”

“I know that,” Donatello said. “But perhaps we can find a clue as to where she has been taken.”

“Are you outta your shell, Donatello? You think these guys just left evidence lying around?” Raphael’s sardonic tone drifted up from the rear.

“It’s possibly they might have dropped something, yes,” Donatello said defensively.

“And what are the odds it’s gone by now? I mean, this is a sewer. It’s probably long gone.”

“Raphael is right,” Leonardo said quietly. “We will not find Ms. O’Neil’s friend like this. We need to try something else.”

“Well, we can’t leave the sewers,” Donatello pointed out. “We’ll be seen.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” April piped up impatiently.

  
“Out of the question,” Leonardo said firmly. “If you go above ground, you are still in danger. We must go with you.”

“Um, Leonardo? We’ve never been on the surface before,” Michelangelo pointed out. “Is that a good idea?”

“We don’t have time for this!” April burst out. “For all we know, my friend could be-” She cut herself off, biting her lip, fighting off the lump in her throat.

“Ms. O’Neil is right,” Leonardo said. “Going above ground is our only choice. She can take us to where she was first chased into the sewers. Maybe we’ll find something there.”

“Good idea,” Donatello agreed. “Just give me a minute and I’ll have us out of here in no time.”

He turned down a branching tunnel, the rest of the group trailing behind him as they relapsed into silence. The only sounds were the splashes their footsteps made, the drip-drip of liquid from the sewer ceiling. April could barely see her breath puffing in front of her face, keeping her eyes focused on the dim shape of Donatello’s shell as he moved confidently through the sewers.

April shivered again, teeth beginning to chatter. She forced herself to focus on her cold, only the cold, not to think about anything else. Not to think about mutant turtles, or dead bodies in the alley, or Spike thundering into the sewers, risking her neck to save April’s. She tried not to think about Channel 6, of Vern abandoning them to certain death. She tried, harder than ever, to wake up from this nightmare, because, as much as she knew it wasn’t, a nightmare this had to be.

“What’s your friend’s name?” Leonardo asked conversationally, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Spike,” she answered shortly.

“Spike?” Raphael’s voice rang out incredulously. He snorted. “No way. What’s her  _ real  _ name?”

“As far as you’re concerned, that  _ is  _ her real name,” April retorted sharply.

“Touchy.”

“Raphael,” Leonardo’s voice had an edge to it as well. “Mind your manners.”

There was a muted grumble from the red-masked turtle, before silence fell again. The tunnels felt smaller now, shorter, yet less restrictive. Seeing them now, through calmer eyes, April noticed that there were markings on the junctures of tunnels, too small to decipher, but discernibly there.

“What are those marks on the walls?” she asked.

“I made them,” Donatello explained. “As an orientation method, to prevent us from losing our sense of direction down here.” He paused, turning his head from side to side. “There should be a ladder around here somewhere.”

“Don’t tell me you’re lost,” Raphael said.

“I’m not. Here it is.” Donatello’s tri-fingered hand grasped the rung of a ladder attached to the side of the tunnel. He turned, glancing back at the group. “Who wants to go first?”

“I will.” April stepped forward, reaching out to grab the ladder herself, beginning to climb.

“I guess that answers that. Who’s next?”

April reached the top of the ladder, letting go with one hand to press insistently at the manhole that covered the opening. She gritted her teeth, shoving with all her might.

“It won’t budge,” she groaned.

Below her, Raphael sighed. “Leave it to a human. Move, I’ll get it off.” He clambered up alongside April, bracing his shoulder and arm against the manhole cover and pressing up against it. The iron disk shifted, moving up and away from the city floor as Raphael finished pushing. “And for my next trick….” He placed either hand on the edges of the hole, lifting himself out effortlessly. He got to his feet and turned back, extending a hand to April. “You need a hand with this too?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” April gritted as she hauled herself out onto her stomach, pulling her legs out after her. She shot to her feet, taking deep inhales of the city air, somehow seeming clean after the hours in the sewer. She never noticed how much she loved the bright lights of the city. Even the trash littering the alley floor was a welcome sight.

One by one, the other three turtles pulled themselves out of the tunnel, Leonardo replacing the manhole cover as he emerged.

“Woah. This is like, totally radical,” Michelangelo breathed, staring with wide eyes around at the alley.

“It’s certainly a unique experience,” Donatello agreed, creeping to the edge of the alley to peer out at the city streets.

“Get back!” April hissed, reaching out to grab at his elbow, tugging him back. “If you draw a lot of attention, we’ll be in big trouble. I thought you  _ didn’t  _ want to end up on television!”

“Relax, Ms. O’Neil, we know all about humans!” Donatello gently pulled away from April’s grasp.

“Yeah, we watch a lot of TV,” Michelangelo agreed.

April raised her hands to rub at her temples, sighing. “Look, we’re in my element now. This is  _ my  _ world. I need you to stay close and to listen to me, got it?”

Leonardo stepped forward. “We will listen to your advice, Ms. O’Neil, but don’t forget, we are partners at the moment.”

“Fine. But the fact is, we’re going to get nowhere until we do something about your looks. You’re too noticeable.”

“Then what do you suggest that we do?” Leonardo asked. “Find disguises of some sort?”

“Good idea.” April crept to the end of the alley, peering out to look up and down the street. “We’re in luck. There’s a men’s clothing store right down the street. Wait here, and I’ll be back with something.”

“Are you sure we can’t come, just to look?” Michelangelo asked.

“I’m sure. Stay  _ right here. _ ”

With one final look back, April left the alley and headed down the street as quickly as she could, hoping she hadn’t made a mistake by leaving them alone.

After what felt like hours later, April sped back into the alley, clad in a new coat and clutching a bundle of fabric. “This is the best I could do,” she said breathlessly, skidding to a halt.

Raphael glanced up from where he’d been leaning against the alley wall, eyeing April’s coat. “I thought you were shopping for us, not you,” he snarked.

April frowned. “It’s cold. You’re reptiles, aren’t you? Aren’t you cold?”

“Ordinarily, we would be,” Donatello supplied helpfully from his perch on the fire escape. “The mutation heightened our metabolisms and tolerance for temperature.” He shrugged. “Or at least, that’s my theory.”

“What’d you bring us?” Michelangelo bounded forward off of his seat on the dumpster, peering eagerly at April’s purchases.

April grasped a handful of fabric and handed it to him: a fedora and a trenchcoat.

“Will this be enough to disguise us?” Leonardo asked, watching Michelangelo struggle to get the coat over his shell.

April shrugged helplessly. “It’s a slight improvement. Here.” She thrust the bundle at Leonardo. “There’s one for each of you.”

The blue-masked turtle gave her a skeptical look before passing the ‘disguises’ to his brothers, each pulling on the coat and hat.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” Raphael quoted, tugging on his fedora.

“Do you know how to get to where you came from from here?” Donatello inquired.

April nodded. “Yes, it’s only a few blocks down from here. Now, just keep quiet, and don’t draw attention to yourselves,  _ please. _ ”

“You have our word,” Leonardo said solemnly. “Please, lead on.”

“Okay. Follow me.” April took a deep breath and turned, striding back out of the alley, all too aware of the four conspicuous forms following along behind her, and all too aware of how much time had already been lost.

* * *

Dallas’s body was still there.

April held her hand over her nose and mouth as she stared at it, kneeling down with Donatello to examine the body.

“It looks like he’s been dead for a few hours. He’s stiff.”

April checked her watch. “It’s been about five hours,” she said quietly.

Donatello frowned, cocking his head. “They came back for him.” He pointed. “Observe the carvings in his arm, made  _ after  _ the heart had stopped beating.”

“Mm hmm.” April nodded, lips pressed firmly together, separating them to murmur through clenched teeth. “That’s the symbol of the Purple Dragons,” she said. “They did that to Burch, too.”

“There might be a clue on him as to the whereabouts of his clan,” Leonardo pointed out. “Search him.”

Donatello reached tentatively for the jacket pockets of the corpse.

“Wait-!” April reached out, clasping her fingers around Donatello’s scaly wrist. “Wait.”

He turned to her, surprised. “What? What is it?”

“Fingerprints,” April explained shortly. “Be careful.” She let go of Donatello’s wrist, folding the sleeve of her coat over her hand and reaching towards the pockets, grimacing as she hurriedly turned them out, jerking away as she did so. Donatello followed suit, emptying pants pockets, shrinking back at the shoulder-holster and gun therein.

Raphael stepped forward. “Well?”

“A switchblade, a wallet, a handkerchief, a comb... _ a pistol _ …….and a coupon for a ninja pizzeria.”

“Very funny,” April said shakily. “Is that all?”

“I’m serious!” Donatello stood, clutching the slip of paper in his thick fingers. “It’s a coupon for a ninja pizzeria! Even better, there’s an address!”

“Right on!” Michelangelo crowed, springing forward to peer over Donatello’s shoulder.

“So?!” April cried.

“So? Do you realize what this is?” 

“A crucial piece of evidence,” Donatello announced.

“The clue that will lead us to the heart of this crime empire,” Leonardo breathed.

“Even better, it’s a place where we can get some  _ pizza! _ ” Michelangelo cried.

April spun, hands on her hips. “A ninja pizzeria? That’s our best shot?”

“It’s our  _ only  _ shot,” Leonardo said. “It may well be the meeting place for this gang. You said it was a ninja’s weapon that killed your co-worker, correct?”

“Right,” April conceded. “So….you’re thinking that this might be the same people?”

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it? We’ll go in, ask a few questions, and maybe we’ll find out where your friend might be.”

April blew out a sigh. “All right. I’ll go check it out.”

“No, Ms. O’Neil, it’s too dangerous. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a ninja pizza parlor,” Donatello said warningly. 

“Besides, we’re hungry,” Raphael added.

“You got us these disguises,” Leonardo pointed out. “If we remain quiet and stealthy, we should go unnoticed, right?”

April reached a hand to rub at her temple. “I don’t know,” she sighed exasperatedly.

“It’s not like the people of New York aren’t used to weird stuff,” Michelangelo interjected.

“We’ll be fine,” Donatello assured her. He held out the coupon for April to take. “Now, lead the way, Ms. O’Neil.”

April reluctantly took the coupon. “Fine. But first, I need to head to a telephone.”

Raphael eyed her suspiciously. “Why? Who ya wanna call?”

“The police.” April nodded at Dallas’s stiffening corpse. “Someone should know about this.” She wrapped her coat more securely around herself, shivering as she began to stride out of the alley.

“And then you will take us to the ninja pizzeria.” It was less of a question than a statement as Leonardo fell into step alongside her.

“After one more call.” April clutched the coupon in her hand, grimacing against the brisk night air. “Angel needs to know about Spike.”


	10. An Offer She Can't Refuse

Angel’s voice was quiet on the phone.

  
“You don’t know where she is.”

April bit her lip, shifting in the tight phone booth. “No,” she murmured. “I don’t. She’s….she’s gone. I think…..the Purple Dragons might have taken her.” 

“_ Taken _ her?” Angel’s voice was hard. “Honey, Dragons don’t take prisoners. They killed your co-worker, a reporter. A public figure. What makes you think they would think twice about killing a lowlife, friendless prize-fighter who refused to take a dive? She wouldn’t be missed.”

Hot tears stung at the back of April’s eyes. She blinked furiously. “Except by us.”

“Except by us. The Dragons know I won’t cause any trouble, and they were out for you anyway, honey. You need to lay low.” There was a sorrowful edge in Angel’s voice now. “I was afraid this would happen.”

“You don’t even care!” April cried. “All you care about is that you’ve lost your best fighter!” She slammed her slim hand into the glass plate, ignoring the startled looks from the turtles clustered outside it. She blinked faster, struggling to hold back tears. “And she _ is! _She’s so brave-” she choked.

“You really think I didn’t care about her? She was my best, sure, the strongest, most powerful fighter I’ve seen in years, but she wasn’t just my champion, sweetheart. She was like a-”

“Stop saying _ was! _” April burst out, feeling sick to her stomach. “She’s still alive!”

“You can’t believe that.”

“I have to.” She was shaking now, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I have to,” she repeated. “She wouldn’t give up on me. She could be lost, or a prisoner, or hurt. I have to find her, Angel. Please…..help me find her.”

Angel was quiet for a moment.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Keep an ear out. Listen for any news from the Dragons, any word about her. If you hear anything, call Channel 6, and tell Irma. I can’t go back to the apartment yet.”

“Sensible idea.” Angel’s voice was softer now. “April, honey…..Let me know if you find her.”

“I will.” April wiped her eyes with her sleeve, nodding as though Angel could see her. “Thank you.”

“Anything for a friend of Spike’s, sweetie. Good luck.”

April slowly hung up, stepping out of the phone booth shakily. She leaned against it for balance, turning her face away from the turtles as they peered at her curiously.

“Your loyalty to your friend does you credit,” Leonardo said hesitantly, taking a step towards her. “She must mean a great deal to you.”

April nodded, clearing her throat and wiping her eyes once more, turning slowly. “She’s like family. I’ve known her for as long as I can remember. She’s always been there, protecting me…..” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I never really realized how much I rely on her.”

“I am sure she is safe,” Leonardo said reassuringly.

“I hate to interrupt,” Raphael interjected. “But don’t we have someplace we gotta be? After all, the sooner we get there, the sooner we find your friend, if she’s still alive.”

April shot him an angry look.

“What Raphael is trying to say,” Donatello said apologetically, “is that there’s no time to waste.”

“Yeah, I’m starving,” Michelangelo agreed.

“Right.” April reached into her coat pocket, drawing out the coupon and squinting at it under the light offered by the streetlamps. “Alright, guys. Follow me.”

* * *

There were cameras everywhere, mounted into the corners of the ceiling of every hall or room that she’d managed to find. The whole place seemed empty, with rooms full of computer banks and nothing else. The whole area was deadly quiet, aside from a low hum that seemed to come from the structure itself.

Spike stopped in the middle of another hallway, grinding her jaw in frustration as she craned her neck, glancing up and down the white tunnel. Her fingers traced over the tape recorder in her pocket again.

It was too easy to get lost here. Some doors opened, but some didn’t. It was impossible to tell which empty rooms she’d already tried. She couldn’t find any other members of this ‘Foot Clan’.

Most importantly, she couldn’t find a way out.

The Shredder’s gift of false freedom was clever indeed, keeping her busy, letting her think she might make progress, all the while wasting time, wandering in circles.

She leaned back against the cool metal, closing her sore eyes. As far as she could tell, the structure was a sphere, or a cylinder. The halls curved around some centerpiece that she couldn’t seem to get to. All she could find was empty rooms, full of more computer banks.

Awfully high-tech for a ninja clan.

A thumping echoed through the walls into her skull. Like stomping in perfect time.

Her eyes snapped open. _ Marching. _

She pushed off of the wall, cocking her head, listening for the sound as she started further down the hallway, her own boots clomping on the metal floor as she moved, long strides carrying her closer to the noise, quickening her pace to a lope.

She barrelled around another rounded corner before skidding to a halt, staggering to press herself up against a wall.

Down the hallway, marching in rows of two, in perfect sync, were figures identical to the ones Spike had seen earlier. Each wore the same uniform, moved the same way, were the same _ height. _None of them turned their heads to look at her, each passing as though she wasn’t there.

Spike watched them, brow creasing as she continued to press herself against the hallway, waiting for the procession to pass, the first sign of movement she’d seen in the hour since she’d left the room she’d awoken in.

She counted twenty Foot members in total, frowning as she thought. They had to be going _ somewhere. _An exit. Someplace where she could get some information.

Preferably on tape.

After a moment, Spike peeled herself from the wall, following behind them, combat boots clunking against the metallic floor. Despite the noise, the soldiers never wavered, never turned, never _ moved. _

Something was _ off _here. No force was that disciplined. Something was going on here, bigger than a gang civil war.

She trailed the squadron through the hallway, growing increasingly unnerved by their movements, their silence. Even the repetitive noise, echoing off of the metal walls, was disturbing, as steady and heavy as machinery.

There was something distinctly inhuman about them. About all of this.

The procession halted as one, waiting by a closed door, featureless but for a control pad on the side. Not one of them moved to activate it, just stood there, waiting.

Abruptly, the door slid open, allowing the pairs to turn, one by one, and march into this new room. As the last pair passed through, Spike ducked her head and charged in after them, nearly running into the back of the implacable soldiers as the door hissed shut mere inches behind her.

She craned her neck, turning to glance around the unfamiliar surroundings. _ This _was promising.

It was an arsenal.

Swords, daggers, spears, staffs, projectile weapons, chains, ropes, and clubs lined the walls, hung carefully from pegs mounted on the wall. Grappling hooks dangled from clasps, and a series of shelves by the back wall held folded piles of fabric identical to the ones worn by the Foot soldiers before her.

The soldiers marched to the walls, each reaching for a weapon without deliberation, placing their weapons of choice in their belts, ignoring Spike entirely as she stared at the weapons, a wrinkle in her brow. 

Her eyes fell on a pair of small weapons hanging towards the bottom of a rack, what appeared to be two triple-pronged batons, blunted metal prongs.

_ Burch. _

A chill ran down her spine as she took a half-step away, shuffling backwards as the Foot soldiers turned to face her, simultaneously going absolutely still. As one, they reached up, removing the cloth covering over their heads, revealing blank, metal faces.

Spike’s good eye widened as she took another step back, staring at the metallic, perfectly rounded heads. Featureless eye-slits stared back, a grilled panel where the mouth and nose ought to have been. These were not metal masks.

The Shredder’s Foot soldiers were robots.

Behind her, the door slid open, revealing the Shredder. He calmly stepped into the room, allowing the door to swish shut, inches from his flowing cape.

“I see you’ve found the armory,” he remarked mildly. Spike whirled to face him, thin lips compressed, blood drained from her face.

“Like minded students, huh?” Spike rasped. She threw her arm out, gesturing at the sea of metal soldiers.

“You mean my Foot drones. A fine feat of technology, are they not? In a sense, they are better than men.” The Shredder strode nearer, boots clanking loudly on the metal surface. “They are stronger, faster. They cannot rebel, cannot tire. They listen to instruction, and follow it to the letter. They never give up, cannot experience _ fear. _They have no minds of their own, and therein lies their greatest weakness.”

“Do tell,” Spike snarled.

“They have no instinct. No code, no honor. No initiative.” The Shredder paused, thoughtfully surveying his force. “As I said, no minds of their own. They are no match for a disciplined warrior with a mind, with instinct. Unfortunately, most of my human followers remain in Japan while I took my drones here. That is why I have been forced to lower myself to alliances with the Purple Dragons.”

Spike’s gaze flickered back to the weapons, the duplicates of the one Burch was killed with. Her mind returned to the string of technology thefts as she turned, glancing over the eerily still Foot soldiers.

“‘S that so?”

“Yes. These drones do not learn as quickly as men, either. I’ve had to train them slowly, stretching the boundaries of their programming. As a fighter, I’m sure you understand, from a less technical level.”

_ Time to play smart. _

She had to give him some information. He was playing with her, manipulating her for information. If she didn’t spill anything, she could be in trouble.

On the other hand, giving him what he wanted didn’t seem like a smart call either.

“Yeah, I get it.” Spike shifted her weight, thumbing at the tape recorder in her pocket. “Instinct. Goin' with your gut.”

The Shredder hesitated only slightly, shifting his weight in silence.

“‘M a prizefighter,” Spike clarified through gritted teeth. “Don’t fight for nobody ‘cept myself. Not for a gang ‘r nothin’.”

The Shredder nodded. “As I thought.”

“Learned in high school. I was sixteen,” Spike said reluctantly. “Jus’ started brawlin’ ‘n back alleys. After a while, got pretty good at it. Went to a gym, started watchin’ fights to learn how ta do it.”

“Playing by ear, in a sense.”

“I guess.” She turned, eyeing the weapon-covered walls, pulling her left hand out of her pocket to run through her shaggy, coarse hair, brushing it out of her eyes. “When I got outta high school, Angel Bridge saw me fight for myself a couplea times an’ figured I had some potential ‘r somethin’. Took me in, started trainin’ me at her gym. ‘S where I’ve been ever since.”

“Impressive, for so little formal training, that you should be so skilled.”

“Ain’t skill.” Spike shoved her hand back into her pocket. “S’ luck.”

“Does Ms. O’Neil encourage your training?”

Spike glanced up sharply, turning to the Shredder as she set her jaw, silent. The dead stare of the Foot soldiers seemed to press in on her. She tensed, grinding her jaw, fighting the urge to drop her gaze from the Shredder’s intense eyes.

The Shredder nodded with understanding. “I see. She does not approve.”

Her upper lip curled back into a snarl. “You don’t have the right ta say _ anythin’ _‘bout April.”

“No, of course not. I can see she means a great deal to you. You are quite determined to defend her.” The Shredder turned, examining his Foot soldiers. “You display a great deal of talent for one so untrained. Rough, undisciplined, but talented. You have great potential.”

Spike’s glare didn’t lighten, the full force of her suspicion settling on her face. Flattery was a deadly tool, used by people smarter than she was. Whatever game the Shredder was playing at, she refused to play along. She looked away from him, back to the wall of weapons, determined to remain silent.

“Imagine how much more dangerous you would be with proper training.” The Shredder’s tone was causal, for all the world as though he were thinking out loud. “How fierce, and strong under one who knows the art of battle.”

Spike’s features hardened further.

“I wonder how much better you would be able to protect your friend with such teaching. With the right tutelage, you would be an unstoppable force. The Purple Dragons would learn more than respect. They would learn fear of you. I doubt Ms. O’Neil would find herself in danger ever again, living with you.”

Spike’s head snapped around. “How’d ya know she lives with me?”

“Once I had your name, it was only a matter of time before I discovered your place of residence.” The Shredder waved his hand. “It is of no consequence. I’m afraid Ms. O’Neil is not there. I sent some of these to check.” He gestured at the Foot soldiers. “There was a warning there, however. Some of the Purple Dragons seem especially eager to terminate you and your friend.”

Spike’s hands clenched into fists as her jaw ground, gut wrenching as she turned towards the Shredder, color draining from her face.

“I questioned some of them myself. Rocksteady and Bebop seemed most anxious that I resort to cruder methods of interrogation in your case. You and Ms. O’Neil are a thorn in the sides of the Purple Dragons, it would seem. I am afraid your friend is in danger.”

Spike’s blood felt like ice, her boots bolted to the floor as she tried to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, tried to swallow the lump in her throat. No words came to her mind, no persuasions, no questions.

“My influence doesn’t extend here, unfortunately. The Purple Dragons are merely partners, not subservient to me in the slightest. I cannot call them off. My authority is over the Foot Clan and the few Dragons that have been loaned to me for orders, but I cannot countermand any given from their own clan. It is regrettable. But, if a native of New York, someone close to Ms. O’Neil could put up a larger fight, stake a claim in this city, mark their _ own _territory, it might be another matter.”

Realization began to dawn.

Her frown lifted slightly in surprise, jaw dropping open. “What-” she paused, cleared her throat. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

The Shredder turned to face her, all pretenses gone as he fixed her with an intense stare. “I am making you an offer, Ms. Sanchez. An offer to join the Foot Clan.”


	11. Allegiances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

The pizzeria was a small, cramped building, pressed in from both sides by other buildings covered in signs that April couldn’t read.

“This is the place,” she said dubiously. “I think. I don’t think this is in English.”

“It’s not.” Leonardo eyed the signs suspiciously. “It’s in Japanese.”

“What do they say?”

Michelangelo sprung to her side, pointing at the signs one at a time. “Dry cleaners, shoe repair, video rentals, dentist-” 

“That’s not the really interesting part,” Donatello interrupted. He took a step closer to the pizzeria, looking intently at something above the door. “Look!” he pointed. “Do you see that?”

April squinted at the doorframe. Barely visible was a symbol, marked in red paint - a symbol of a right foot. “I don’t get it.”

“Remember Master Splinter’s story?” Michelangelo exclaimed. “The Foot Clan!”

“The Foot? In New York?” Raphael asked, pressing forward, squinting at the symbol. “Is that possible?”

Donatello turned, glancing at the other buildings. “It’s on every building here,” he said quietly. “What do we do, Leonardo?”

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Leonardo murmured. “Be on your guard, ninja.” He took a step towards the door.

“Wait a minute!” April hissed. “You’re saying these places are owned by a Japanese ninja clan?!”

“It’s very possible.”

“Hold on!” She began searching her pockets, patting them down to try to find her tools of trade. “This would be a great story in and of itself! I wouldn’t even have to mention you guys.” She frowned, going through her pockets again. “That’s funny. I can’t find my tape recorder.”

“Maybe you lost it in the sewer,” Donatello suggested.

April shook her head. “No, I don’t-” her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

April sighed, pulling her hands out of her pockets to rub at her temples. “Spike has it,” she sighed. “I remember now. She carried a lot of my equipment, and took it when we were questioning that Dragon. She must still have it.”

“So the sooner we get to your friend, the faster you’ll get your gear,” Raphael said. “Let’s go, already!”

“Besides, the buildings will be here after. You can still get your story, as long as you leave us out of it,” Leonardo reasoned.

April gave one last longing glance to the symbol above the doorway before reaching into her pockets again, withdrawing the crumpled coupon. “Alright. Let’s go.” She turned, raising her chin and marching up to the doorway, pulling the door open with more confidence than she felt.

Immediately, she felt the change in temperature, a rush of warm air from the inside as she glanced around the dimly lit room. The smell of pizza seemed a harsh contrast to the beautiful wooden tables and chairs, the panels of Japanese artwork on the wall. It looked more like a sushi bar than a pizzeria.

On top of that, it was nearly empty, with only a few unsavory looking characters sitting hunched over the tables. April’s gaze focused on the Purple Dragon tattoos on many of their forearms, and reached up, tugging the collar of her coat up to hide her face.

Immediately, a large figure stepped in front of her, a burly, Japanese man with the tattoo of the Purple Dragon displayed prominently as he folded his arms, making himself look still bigger. “You have a coupon?”

His voice was thick, but not unintelligent. April swallowed hard, bringing her shaking hand up to show him the slip of paper. The man looked at the coupon and grunted in acknowledgement.

“Do you want it?” April said, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

“Only if you don’t want to come back,” he said, turning away . As he did, April noticed another tattoo on his other arm, the same mark that had been over the doorway. A red right foot.

“Hey, come on, April, let’s go find a table,” Michelangelo whispered at her elbow. “I’m starving!”

“Fascinating,” Donatello mused aloud. “The coupon must function as a pass to get in to this place.”

“Interesting that the Purple Dragons are allowed in here too,” April murmured back. She frowned as she trailed the turtles, following Michelangelo to a booth.

Angel’s words from two nights previous - had it been only two nights ago? - echoed in her mind, the talk of the Purple Dragons forming a partnership. The partnership, the coupon found on a Dragon, and now a pair of tattoos, one for the Purple Dragons, and one for this Foot clan.

Her eyes widened and she slid into the booth across from Leonardo, leaning over the table and lowering her voice. “I think the Purple Dragons are working with your Foot Clan,” she murmured.

Leonardo frowned back, looking around the pizzeria, nodding slowly. “There would certainly seem to be a connection. We will try to find out as much information as we can.”

“No! You’re far too noticeable. Even with those ‘disguises’, if you got close, anyone could tell you weren’t human!”

“The guy at the counter didn’t seem to notice when I ordered for us,” Raphael pointed out.

  
“You ordered?!”

“If we didn’t, it’d look suspicious.”

“Do you have a plan to pay for that?”

Raphael glanced at her. “Well, you’ll cover it, right?”

April threw her hands up. “You’re impossible!” She began searching her pockets again, sighing. “How much?”

“About thirty bucks.”

April threw the money in Raphael’s direction. “We didn’t come here to eat. We came here to find out what happened to Spike, and that’s what I intend to do,” she hissed.

Donatello nodded. “Don’t worry, April.” He waved a hand. “I’ve designed some bugs to plant around here, so we can hear their conversations. Maybe one of them will drop some information about what happened to your friend.”

“You watch too many spy movies.” April stood up, glancing around. “I’m going to start asking around.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, April.” Leonardo grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down. “You don’t have a Purple Dragon mark, and if what you say is true, then those who _ do _belong to that gang will likely be trying to kill you. Our best bet is to wait. We don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.”

“Unnecessary attention. Right.” April folded her arms, glancing around the room again.

“So far, I’m really digging the surface world, dudes,” Michelangelo announced, leaning back.

“It has been an informative experience,” Donatello agreed.

“We must not let ourselves be carried away. We still have a job to do,” Leonardo reminded them. “Stay alert.”

Alert. April almost laughed. She had been on alert for days. Her nerves were shot, her hands were shaky. She jumped at her own shadow. Nausea was now an old friend, and the lump in her throat seemed as though it was there to stay. Her reporter’s instincts were blaring constantly, drawing her attention to anything that seemed out of the ordinary.

As if sitting with four talking turtles was now something that could be considered ordinary.

The pizzas arrived at their table after what felt like an eternity. The turtles dug in with gusto, grabbing slices and sliding them onto plates with anticipation.

“Want some?” Michelangelo asked.

April shook her head wordlessly, eyes scanning the room again, pausing hesitantly over each Purple Dragon mark. The Dragon with the Foot tattoo sat across the room from them, apparently busy with his chicken wings, glancing occasionally at the watchband around his thick wrist.

Abruptly, he looked up, meeting April’s gaze. The tracest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he stared back, as though he’d expected her to be watching him. She froze, a chill running down her spine as he stood up, breaking her gaze, and leisurely strode towards the exit.

She watched him go for a moment, before turning back to the table, forehead creased as she thought. Her instincts were screaming at her, telling her to follow him. That he knew something.

“Not hungry?” Michelangelo asked, looking up from his slice.

April shook her head, standing up. “No, not really. I just need to go…..I’ll be right back.” She turned on her heel, pulling her coat tighter around her as she made for the exit, boots clicking on the floor. She pushed open the door, turning into the ninja-claimed alley and swivelling her head, straining to find her target in the shadows of the tall buildings that seemed to close in on the narrow streets.

The Dragon was heading out of the Foot Clan alley, turning onto a more main street at a leisurely pace, hands in his pockets.

April fixed her eyes on his broad back, tugging her collar up and bracing against the cold before setting her chin and following at a hopefully inconspicuous distance, ignoring the voice in the back of her head that was shouting that this was a bad idea, that this could be a trap.

The voice that sounded suspiciously like Spike’s familiar rumble.

April shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at the tiny pizzeria, squinting through the window to try to see the foursome she’d left behind, feeling a pang of guilt.

_ They’ll be fine, _ she tried to reassure herself. _ They’re trained ninja. They can take care of themselves. _

With that last thought, she turned her eyes forward, following the Purple Dragon into the night, led on by desperation and a hunch.

It had been perhaps an hour before the Purple Dragon finally stopped outside a sweeping skyscraper: _ Manhattan Security Services. _April paused, gasping for breath as the Dragon disappeared through the wide glass doors in the front. There was nothing special about this building, no secret mark to be found here. It looked like any number of insurance buildings April had reported at. It could have been any skyscraper.

She hesitated for merely an instant before marching towards the door, yanking it open and slipping inside before her common sense could talk her out of it. As the door closed behind her, she turned, ducking out of the entryway. She glanced around the spacious lobby, sliding behind a large potted plant just inside the doorway as her sharp gaze took in the clean floors, the tasteful paintings, the wide, wooden desk that was so much larger than Irma’s little wooden haven in Channel 6. Behind the desk sat a Japanese woman dressed in a smart polo shirt, with big, bangle bracelets clattering on her slim wrists. April’s sharp eyes locked onto her forearms, ice shooting up her spine as she noticed the edge of a red tattoo, the same mark she’d seen on the Dragon. She dropped into a crouch, peering around the pot, listening intently.

The Purple Dragon marched to the desk, and she looked up expectantly. “Hun,” she greeted in a nasally voice. She raised her pointed chin, looking down at him. “I’ve got another scientific company lined up, ready to be cleaned out. You have your ‘security team’?”

Hun inclined his head. “I would, ‘cept I’m missing my two best guys. When’s your boss finished with Bebop and Rocksteady?”

“When he decides he’s finished with them,” the secretary said coolly. She cocked her head, large earrings clacking together. “I suggest you get moving.”

“Sure, Lin.” He turned around, scanning the lobby as a smirk played over his face. “Though first, I think your boss would like to know that we’ve got what he’s looking for.”

April froze, heart hammering in her chest as she held her breath.

Lin glanced up, following his gaze to the potted plant. A wicked smile curled her full, lipstick coated lips. “Good work, Hun.” She pressed a button on her desk, reaching up to adjust her headset. “Security team C, report to reception,” she chirped. She nodded towards the plant. “Grab her.”

April sprang to her feet, already sprinting for the door as Hun burst into a run behind her. Her hand was on the door handle, wrapping around and pulling as a strong arm locked around her waist in an iron grip, yanking her back, knocking her breath out of her lungs.

Hun’s breath was hot on the back of her neck, and she could almost hear his grin. He smelled like chicken wings and the thick air of New York City, mixed with leather. She choked, struggling to pull away.

“Where do you think you’re going, O’Neil?”

As he spoke, he turned her around, facing the secretary desk as a door on the other side of the room slid open with a quiet hiss. Four figures filed in, moving in perfect sync, all dressed in a similar uniform, covered head to toe in black and purple.

Upon each of their foreheads was the mark on Hun’s arm, the mark above the pizzeria, the same symbol that was plainly visible on Lin’s pale arm. The red mark of the Foot Clan.

Lin smiled too widely at her, leaning forward over her desk. “Oh, please, Ms. O’Neil, don’t go so soon. We’d very much like it if you stayed a while.”

April swallowed and nodded. “Okay,” she said resolutely, heart skipping a beat. “You caught me. Take me to your leader.”

* * *

Spike staggered, eyes wide. She sucked in a breath so fast it almost hurt her aching ribs. “What?”

“As I have said, you have potential. With training, you could be a valuable asset. I would grant you leadership, control of my forces in this city, if you grant me your loyalty.” The Shredder’s voice was calm, perfectly reasonable. As though he weren’t offering her a position in a ninja gang.

Spike turned, staring blankly at a weapon-covered wall. She took a few steps forward, reaching blindly and tracing her calloused fingers over the handle of a metal, baseball-bat shaped weapon with a pronounced pommel on the end. Her eyes rested on the spiked end of the weapon, looking but not seeing.

Ultimate power over New York City. With that much pull, the Purple Dragons would leave April alone for good. _ Every _gang would leave her alone. She could do her reporting in peace, and if any criminal gave her a hard time, Spike could put a stop to it, end them if necessary. She could clean up the streets. She would never again have to worry that her protection of April wasn’t enough. For the first time, she would be safe.

_ Safe. _

Spike would be able to keep her promise. Forever.

The Shredder was at her shoulder, quick and quietly, looking at the weapon on the wall. “A kanabō,” he said. “The weapon of a strong samurai. An excellent choice for one with the balance, strength and power to use it. It can be yours.” He reached for it, pulling it off of the wall with both hands and turning to Spike, holding it out.

Mutely, Spike extended her hands, allowing him to place the metal, spiked staff into her hands. It was maybe four feet long, eight pounds. She dropped her hands to the handle, holding it upright, muscles and grip adjusting to the weight. The Shredder took a step back, watching intently as she gave it a swing, moving with it, fighting to stay balanced.

_ It felt right. _

Her hands trembled around the smooth handle. She stood upright, shifting her grip, raising it in a blocking movement. This, she could handle. She didn’t have to think about the offer. The familiarity of muscle movement, of balancing a heavy object, mixed with the unfamiliarity of the weapon, the surroundings, the situation itself felt almost dreamlike. As though she would wake up any minute, and April would be standing in the doorway, asking why she hadn’t made breakfast yet because she was going to be late for work.

It was too real, though. And the Shredder was still looking at her, still watching her with sharp, shrewd eyes.

Spike lowered the weapon to the cold metal floor, following it with her gaze. Too many thoughts crashed in on her, too many possibilities. 

An earsplitting, blaring sound broke into her thoughts, emanating from hidden speakers around the room. The Shredder looked up, crossing to a panel in the wall and pressing a button. “Speak.”

“Master Shredder, we have something you might be interested in seeing.” The voice was female, overly saccharine, nasally.

The Shredder paused for a moment before depressing the button again. “Stand by. I will resume contact in a moment.” He released the key, turning to Spike. “Ms. Sanchez. I would appreciate your company as I conduct business. Join me.”

It was a command, not an invitation.

Spike slowly, almost reluctantly hefted the kanabō up, back onto its place on the wall. Her hands felt empty, odd without its weight. She shifted, grinding her jaw as she returned her gaze to the Shredder, squaring her shoulders. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. 

“Lead the way.”


	12. Divided

The throne room looked different, now that she was on her feet.

Spike glanced around the room as she walked inside, boots almost as loud on the metal floor as the Shredder’s. His cape flapped behind him, almost brushing her as he strode to the dais where his throne sat.

Spike remained a step behind him, refusing to listen to the part of her brain that told her to wait before the throne.

“What kinda business we talkin’ here?”

It was the first time either of them had spoken since they left the armory.

The Shredder turned slightly as he walked towards the control panel. “A report from my lieutenants in contact with the Purple Dragons. A new development in the search for Hamato Yoshi, perhaps. Some new technology we’ve managed to...acquire.” He leaned forward, reaching a gauntlet-clad hand out to depress a button on the console. “Speak.”

“It’s Hun, Master Shredder,” A gruff, low voice answered. “We’ve found something you want.”

“Elaborate, Hun. As you may recall, I gave you and your subordinates a variety of tasks to complete.”

“It’s the girl, Master Shredder. We’ve got the girl. We’ve got O’Neil.”

And Spike’s blood turned to ice.

* * *

Her legs and arms were cramping, immobile thanks to the ropes that bound her legs together, her arms behind her back. The duct tape over her mouth tugged at her cold face, no matter how she worked at it, she could only loosen it so far.

The cold concrete of the roof of the building bit into her skin, rough, even through the fabric of her clothes. She shivered, unable to move as the icy December wind whistled around her. She craned her neck, shaking her hair out of her eyes to watch Hun pace before her, mouth to his wrist communicator.

“Yeah. Practically on a silver platter for you, boss. Worked perfectly. I led her right to us, a perfect trap. For being a reporter, she ain’t too bright.”

April frowned, working her mouth, unconsciously mimicking the motion of Spike’s familiar habit in an effort to loosen the tape.

_ “Be careful how you speak,” _ the deep, imposing voice on the other end of the communicator replied sharply. _ “Is she unharmed?” _

Hun’s expression was quizzical. “Sure. But Master Shredder-”

_ “There is someone I am in contact with who very much desires her untouched. Do you understand?” _

Hun paused, glancing at April. “Whatever you say, Master Shredder.”

Someone on that end wanted her safe. _ That _ was good news. A corner of the tape began to loosen, not nearly fast enough. She wished she had told the turtles where she was going. Or called Irma, Angel, even Vern, _ anyone _to tell them where she was. Nobody would know where to look for her. Spike was still missing. There was no one to rescue her, and she’d walked right into it, on a fool’s hope that she’d find her friend, that she’d get some information. 

_ How could I have been so stupid? _

She blinked back tears at the hopelessness of the situation, at the uncontrollable spiral the last day had become. She strained at her bonds, working her jaw as another corner of the tape peeled off, for all the good it would do her.

“What do I do with her?” Hun asked uneasily.

A familiar, rough rumble, muffled through the communication device, split the night air:

_ “April? April, s’ that-” _

April’s eyes widened, and she cried out in relief, voice stifled through the gag.

_ Spike was alive. _

* * *

_ April was alive. _

Spike’s gut churned as she staggered, reaching out to steady herself on the console. “S’ that April?” she repeated hoarsely.

“It would appear the Purple Dragons have located Ms. O’Neil,” Shredder mused aloud, looking thoughtful. He glanced at Spike out of the corner of his eye. “You would wish to speak with her?”

“Yes. Lemme talk to her.” Spike could barely keep the edge of desperation from her voice, a combination of deep, agonizing terror and overwhelming relief. “Just lemme talk to her.”

“Certainly.” He pressed the panel in the console again. “Someone wishes to speak to you, Hun. I would advise you to listen. There is a distinct possibility that you may answer to her in the future.” He stepped away, nodding at Spike, gesturing at the panel.

Spike started forward, gripping the control panel with aching fingers as she slapped the button down, stuffing down the familiar wave of fear, fear for April. She had to hear her, _ needed _to hear her voice, just enough to put her mind at rest, just enough to tell her that April was safe.

Her voice came out in a crash of harsh thunder. “Put me on with April.” She barely recognized her voice, her vision swimming before her. “If you’ve laid a hand on her, I’ll tear you _ limb from limb _, d’ya understand?”

There was the sound of ripped tape, and a mild yelp, before April’s voice was heard, startlingly clear, the most wonderful sound in the world, the only sound Spike wanted to hear:

_ “Spike! Spike, is that you? Thank God you’re alive! Are you hurt?” _

* * *

The tape lay forgotten on the roof, but the sting of its removal remained. April ignored it, tears blurring her vision, a lump caught in her throat as she spoke, words tumbling out in a rush as Hun held the communicator to her mouth.

_ “‘M fine. How ‘bout you, did they hurt ya?” _

April shook her head. “No, no, I’m fine. Where are you?”

There was a pause.

_ “Safe,” _ she said shortly. _ “I guess. You were supposed to lay low. Where are you?” _

“On top of the Manhattan Security Services building.” April shifted uncomfortably in her bonds. “Spike…...who is that with you? The Shredder?”

_ “Yeah. Oruku Saki.” _

April froze, eyes flying wide open as Splinter’s words echoed in her mind: _ Under Orkuku Saki, the Foot became dangerous, a criminal army. _

“Spike, you have to get out of there!” April burst out. “He’s working with the Dragons! He’s the partner-”

_ “I know.” _

“You know?!”

_ “Ain’t permanent. He’s here to stop somebody dangerous, somebody who’s startin’ a civil war. Somethin’ like...Hama….Hamato…” _

“Hamato Yoshi,” April breathed.

* * *

Spike frowned. “How’d y-”

The Shredder stepped forward urgently, clenching his fists as he leaned towards the control panel. “How do you know Hamato Yoshi?” he growled.

There was a scuffle on the other end, and Hun’s voice crackled out of the speakers: _ “Master Shredder, you aren’t breakin’ the deal on us, are you? We aren’t in Japan, remember. These are our streets.” _ There was the sound of a gun cocking. _ “Jus’ let me blow her away an’ we’ll hand over the rest of the equipment you were so keen to get your hands on. My boys are gettin’ another load of it now. O’Neil is our business. We’ve been after her for days. She’s in the way, and she knows too much. I don’t know about this charity kick you’re on, but you’d better shake it off if you want your parts.” _

The Shredder stared at the panel, his brows heavy in a glower. “You’re the only one in that wretched mob you call a gang with any intelligence. You think I would be so stupid as to not insure my own interests? My Foot soldiers have you surrounded. A wrong move, and I will hang your corpse for all of New York to see.”

_ “Doesn’t matter. Anything happens to me, my boys lock down. As you said, I’m not stupid. An alliance goes both ways, Master Shredder. You can sit underground in that Technodrome of yours as long as you want, doesn’t change anything. This is still our city.” _

“She knows Hamato Yoshi,” Shredder growled. “She has information I need. Turn her, and the equipment, over to me. When I am finished with her, you may do with her as you wish.”

A bolt of agonized dread shot through Spike’s body, leaving her hands shaking uncontrollably. This was every nightmare she’d had, every worst fear since she was seven years old. She turned slowly, fixing the Shredder with steely eyes.

“You promised her safety,” she snarled.

“I did no such thing. I promised what she has always had: _ your _protection. I promised to give you the resources to do so more effectively.” The Shredder turned, eyes blazing. “The offer still stands, Ms. Sanchez, I assure you. Join me, and you can have the power to save her.”

_ “Don’t listen to -!” _April’s voice was muffled, far-away sounding, but the intensity, the urgency in her voice was unmistakable, as was the stifling of it a second later.

_ “Master Shredder, you promised us O’Neil’s head. You said we could waste her, an’ anyone else who got in our way. Ya had no problems offin’ Burch. What makes O’Neil any different?” _

* * *

April’s heart pounded in her chest, shortening her breath as she struggled to get loose, strained to call out around the arm over her mouth, to get away from the gun pressed against her temple. Her eyes darted around, noticing the movement in the shadows. Shapes emerged from the darkness, climbing up the sides of the building, wearing the uniforms of the Foot Clan.

Oroku Saki’s minions.

Terror for Spike and fear for her own life washed over her in waves. She would die on this roof, alone, where Spike could hear it. All this, for a story, a story that had already cost two lives, a story that would cost more before the night was over.

The Foot soldiers were pressing in on all sides as Hun looked up, smug look on his face fading as he took in the Shredder’s forces. “That son of a -”

A voice rang out, loud, sharp, and sardonic: “April! There you are. Y’know, there’s a lesson here about wandering off and talking to strangers.”

Four familiar shapes bounded over the edge of the roof, landing low and ready, like coiled springs.

Hun did a double take. “What the-”

Leonardo’s voice split the night air, punctuated by the sharp sound of a blade exiting it’s sheath. “Lose the coats, guys. It’s go time.”

Raphael leapt first, identifiable in the dark by his whoop as his sais connected with the first of the Foot soldiers, colliding with a reverberating, metallic sound.

_ “Clang?!” _he cried, stumbling back. “Did you say clang??!”

Leonardo’s katanas dealt a blow to the torso of another soldier, slicing the fabric open. He staggered, frowning. “They’re robots!”

_ “Robots?” _Donatello’s voice was tinged with as much interest as shock.

“Study them later!” Raphael bellowed. “Show ‘em some moves, boys!”

“Let’s rock!” Michelangelo crowed, leaping into the air, nunchucks whirling as he came down, hard, scattering Foot soldiers as he landed.

April felt the cold barrell of the gun leave her head, and she bit down, hard, on Hun’s arm. He shouted and swore, pulling his arm away and standing up from his crouch.

“He’s got a gun!” she cried, hoping her voice would be heard over the din.

Leonardo whirled amongst the wreckage of fallen robots, face grim as he took in the sight of Hun. “Raphael,” he barked. “Take care of it.”

Raphael spun and jumped, somersaulting clear over April’s head, sai hooking around Hun’s wrist and jerking it to the side as the gun went off with a _ crack! _He twisted the sai, crushing the wrist communicator as he did so, and jabbing his fist into Hun’s elbow. The man’s hand flew open, the gun tumbling down, over the edge of the building.

“This one’s human,” he called. He reached out, grabbing a hold of Hun’s shirt, and heaved, tossing him onto the fire escape below. He turned, sliding his sai down through the ropes binding April’s arms.

“Thanks,” she gasped. “I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it. Stay down, this could get messy.” With that, Raphael dove back into the fray as April bent, cold, stiff fingers stumbling over the knots around her knees. She stood, turning and glancing over the edge of the roof, ignoring the feeling of dizziness from the height, forcing her eyes to focus on Hun’s unconscious form. She gripped the ledge of the roof, hesitantly swinging her legs over the edge, dropping onto the fire escape beside him, reaching for his wrist communicator.

_ Smashed. _

“No!” she cried in frustration. She slammed the side of her fist into the railing of the fire escape, wincing. “No!”

* * *

The noise was incomprehensible through the speakers, a jumble of strange voices and noises, abruptly cut off in a stream of static.

“April? April! _ No _!” Spike punched the metallic wall to the right of the control panel angrily, ignoring the stab of pain radiating from her bruised knuckles.

“His communication device must have been destroyed.” The Shredder jabbed another panel, leaning down to speak. “All units, return to the Technodrome!” He turned angrily, beginning to stalk away.

Spike’s fists were shaking with rage, with waves of stomach-churning terror, with uncertainty. Hundreds of scenarios ran through her head, pictures of potential events happening to April. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she choked it down. 

“_ You- _ ” She spun after the Shredder. _ “You promised them her head!” _

Oruku Saki hesitated for an instant, inclining his head. “They don’t have to have it,” he said slowly. “As I said, my offer still stands. Once the Dragons turn her over, I will train you, leave you in the city to be a stronghold. Ms. O’Neil will never be in danger again.”

Spike’s mind replayed April’s terror at the name _ Oruku Saki, _her pleas to not listen to him. The Shredder’s sudden interest in April’s knowledge of this Hamato Yoshi.

_ She knows something. _

She reached into her jacket pocket, clicking the _ record _button on April’s tape recorder.

“You ordered the Purple Dragons to steal that equipment, in return for weapons.”

“Yes.”

“Didjya order the death of Morgan Burch?”

A pause.

“I did.”

“_ Did you order the death of April O’Neil? _” Spike growled.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Yes,” the Shredder said shortly.

Spike’s hands clenched into fists as she took them out of her pockets, stomach roiling, heart pounding the familiar battle drum.

With a roar, she lunged, fists up, head ducked. She moved fast, right elbow smashing into the Shredder’s un-armored low back.

Not fast enough.

The Shredder spun back around, fist slashing down like lightning, blades in his claws gleaming brighter than ever in the bright throne room.

* * *

Above her, shapes flew overhead, leaping from the rooftop to the roof of another building, an impossible jump. April’s head jerked up as she gaped in horror at the Foot soldiers, escaping. “They’re getting away!” she shouted.

“Ha! That’s what they think!” Raphael’s cocky holler did little to alleviate her worry as he dropped onto the fire escape beside her.

“How are we gonna get down there?” April demanded, waving her hand at the rapidly disappearing robots.

“Like this.” Leonardo appeared on her other side, already taking a rope out of his belt, wrapping it around the hilt of his katana. He reared back, winding up, before hurling the sword at the other building, watching it embed into the bricks with satisfaction.

  
“Master Splinter would be proud,” Donatello remarked, landing beside them, careful to avoid Hun’s unconscious body. “Getting crowded here, isn’t it? Grab on, April.”

Leonardo secured the other end of the rope to the edge of the fire escape. “Alright, let’s go.”

April wrapped her arms around Donatello’s shoulders, molding herself around his protruding shell, watching him hook his bo staff over the rope.

“Hold on,” he warned, pushing off.

April didn’t scream as they streaked down the rope. She doubted she had the breath to, or would have been able to hear herself, with the wind whistling in her ears as they landed. Behind them, Leonardo, Raphael and Michelangelo landed, weapons drawn as April let go of Donatello, rubbing her arms where the hard shell had cut into them as the last of the Foot soldiers disappeared into the roof entrance to the building.

Leonardo was seconds behind them, jerking the door open. “Let’s go, gang.” He disappeared into the building, katanas in hand as he bypassed the steps, sliding on the railing down to the floor. He frowned, pausing. “It’s deserted.”

Michelangelo was next, looking around curiously. “Hey, yeah. Where is everybody?”

“Well, it’s late. They probably went home,” Raphael pointed out. “This is a business office, y’know.”

“Interesting design for a business office,” Donatello observed, kneeling to look at the walls. “These look like they’re watertight!”

“Hurry!” April urged. “We have to follow them!”

“We have no way of knowing where they are going,” Leonardo pointed out.

April paused, thinking frantically. “Yes we do. Hun said something about something called a Technodrome.”

“Technodrome?” Raphael’s tone was skeptical. “Where’s that?”

“He said it was underground. I’ll bet that’s where these Foot ninja are headed,” April said, already crossing to the stairway. “Which means we have to go down!”

“Hold on.” Leonardo reached out, gently, but firmly tugging her elbow back. “April, you wait here.”

“Wait here? No way!” April cried. She pulled away, trying to steady her breathing. She jerked her arm, gesturing down the stairs. “They have her, don’t you get it? They have Spike in that Technodrome! She’s in danger, and it’s my fault. I’m going with you.”

“Just let her come, Leonardo,” Michelangelo called, pushing past them to barrel down the stairs. “We can protect her!”

“Besides, if we leave her, she might run off again,” Raphael quipped, following Michelangelo.

Leonardo hesitated a moment before reluctantly nodding. “Stay behind us.”

April nodded back. “Fine. Lead the way.”

It took what felt like hours to reach the basement of the skyscraper, April’s lungs fit to bursting, her chest heaving, legs aching, driven on by that desperate hope again, the hope that they’d find the Technodrome.

The hope that she’d find Spike.

Ahead of her, Leonardo came to an abrupt halt as they stepped into the basement. April barely avoided smacking into the back of his shell, stumbling to regain her balance. “What is it?”

“They turned on the water!” Michelangelo cried from the front, turning around.

“They’re gone!” Leonardo exclaimed, frustration dripping from his voice.

“Gone?! No, they can’t be…” April peered around them, heart sinking into her stomach as she watched the water rise in the basement. Already it was at knee-height. They were too late.

“Watertight walls!” Donatello shouted. “Of course! This place must have been one giant trap! We’ve got to get to safety, or we’ll drown!”

“Drown? What’re you talking about? We’re turtles!” Michelangelo grinned, watching the water rise to waist height.

“Yeah, but she’s not,” Raphael said, jerking his thumb at April. “C’mon, let’s get to the roof!”

Every fiber of April’s being screamed at her to not go, they were so close, there had to be an exit, they could still catch up with the ninja. She fought the urge to pull away as Donatello’s hand closed around her wrist. Reluctantly, she allowed her legs to cooperate, letting him tug her along, Raphael herding her from behind as they made their way back up the exhaustingly long flights of stairs. Her heart sank further with every step, dragging her down.

_ So close. _

“The way this place is designed, the whole building will fill with water until the supports can’t sustain the weight,” Donatello explained, barely out of breath as they tore upstairs. “Then the whole place will collapse on whoever is still inside. It’s brilliant! Twisted, but brilliant.”

“Look on the bright side,” Raphael offered as the door to the roof swung open. “At least it’s not raining.”

Leonardo sprang across the roof, grabbing at the katana embedded into the roof. He gripped the rope attached to it, turning. “Grab on!”

April reached out, hands wrapping around the rope, squeezing her eyes shut as Leonardo pushed off.

“Cowabunga!” Michelangelo hollered as the cord swung, carrying them to the fire escape, almost slamming them into it. April winced as her shoulder glanced off the edge of the ladder before reaching out, grabbing hold to pull herself onto the stairs, craning her neck.

Hun was gone.

“I’d say that ninja crime-wave is a wash-out,” Raphael remarked, clambering onto the fire escape. “Right, guys?”

“Are you alright, April?” Donatello asked gently.

The tears that burned in the back of April’s eyes threatened to spill over onto her cheeks. _ So close. So close. _

“Come on,” Leonardo said quietly. “Let’s head back to the lair. Master Splinter needs to know about this.”

* * *

“It is as I feared.” Splinter’s voice was heavy, weighed down with worry. “My old enemy, Oruku Saki must be nearby if his Foot Clan is here. We are all in danger. Saki is no easy adversary to beat.”

“Relax. Everything about that place went down the drain,” Raphael reminded him. “They don’t know about us!”

“Hun did,” April said quietly. “And it doesn’t matter. We have to track them down.” She looked up, a determined set to her full lips. “Oruku Saki has Spike.”

Leonardo frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I spoke to her.” April’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “She must be held in that Technodrome that Hun mentioned.”

“Don’t worry, April, we will find Oruku Saki, and your friend. We turtles don’t know the meaning of the word defeat,” Leonardo declared.

“That’s right! We never bothered to look it up in the dictionary,” Michelangelo added. He watched April’s face, smiling with satisfaction as her lip quirked upwards in a tiny smile.

“April, I am sorry about your friend,” Splinter said. “For anyone to fall into the hands of Oruku Saki-”

“He calls himself the Shredder,” April said. “And I think he’s even more dangerous than you might remember.”

“You can say that again! Those weapons used by the Foot Clan were unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Donatello agreed. “They looked like traditional Japanese weaponry, but they were designed with technology even I don’t know about.”

“Just one more question.” April glanced up, a thoughtful look on her face. “I left the pizzeria without saying where I was going. How did you find me?”

Donatello beamed. “Remember those bugs I told you I’d place? I heard a few Purple Dragons get the message that you had been caught at Manhattan Security, and followed them to the bottom floor. Then we headed to the roof.”

April’s shoulders slumped. “Thank you for saving me…..I’m sure the Dragons have struck again by now.”

“Undoubtedly.” Leonardo stood up solemnly. “Ms. O’Neil….April, I want you to know that we will not rest until we find, and rescue, your friend.”

April lifted her chin with determination, looking him in the eyes. “Thank you, Leonardo. Neither will I. Tomorrow, we find that Technodrome. We’ll rip the lid off of this story and get Spike back.”

“Together.” Leonardo reached his hand out to shake.

April nodded firmly, taking his scaly hand in her smaller one. “Together.”

_ We’re coming, Spike. Just hold on. _

* * *

Blood splattered onto the shining floor, looking terribly organic, too alive for the sterility of the room.

Spike staggered back, hand clutching the right side of her face as the stabbing, blinding pain drove her to her knees. She felt the warm liquid between her fingers, slipping down her palm as her unfocused eyes watched the redness drip from the end of the Shredder’s claws.

The puddle underneath her grew, her hand sliding in it as she struggled to stand, to rise. Her cheek felt like it was on fire. It was worse than any blow she had ever received, worse than the bullet graze.

She forced herself to her feet, hand still pressed to her skin. She could feel it, her fingers slid in the mess, two jagged gashes across the right side of her face, pouring blood, and the Shredder was watching her, with the same intense, almost approving gaze.

“She could be dead,” she spat, pushing the words out with effort. “Do you understand me? She could be dead, you freakin’ slimeball.”

“Truly remarkable.” The Shredder stepped towards her, a tone that almost hinted at admiration in his voice. “You are a warrior indeed. I am not one to let potential assets slip through my fingers, Ms. Sanchez. It is possible that Ms. O’Neil is dead, but the alteration of the deal does not negate it entirely. You have before you two choices. You can join me and serve the Foot Clan, or I will find another use for you. I don’t believe in letting things go to waste. It is your choice whether you help me willingly or not.”

Silently she stood, dripping red onto her boots, onto her fingers, splattering the floor as her face burned, as her chest and stomach ached, a horrible, empty loneliness as her deepest fear became her reality.

She’d failed. April O’Neil was, at best, in terrible danger.

And suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading! A sequel is coming soon, so if you're interested, please leave a comment and let me know what you think! It means a lot. I hope to 'see' you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment and subscribe to this story for more! It helps a lot, I really appreciate it. I hope to see you in the next chapter!


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